


Les Mis Prompt Drabbles

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:05:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 45,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various drabbles written for my semi-regular tumblr prompt askbox memes. Mostly E/R, but occasionally I get prompted for other pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kissing Booth

The carnival fundraiser was Enjolras's idea, so he figures it's only fair that he volunteer to man the kissing booth, since everyone else is either in a committed relationship or too unreliable to depend upon.

For the most part it's fun, there's the sound of laughter in the air as people wander through the carnival, playing games and winning prizes, and he earns most of his money giving kisses on the cheek to friends or acquaintances who are mostly in it to support the cause, and break off with a laugh as soon as their lips are chastely pressed together. Jehan comes by around lunchtime and takes a peck on the nose in exchange for his dollar, and Courfeyrac puts on a show for those waiting behind him, and Enjolras raises a fair amount of money for the group, which is the important thing.

The carnival is winding to a close and Enjolras is counting up the earnings in his money box when there's the quiet sound of a throat being cleared and he looks up to find Grantaire standing in front of the booth, his brows lifted and a dollar in his hand. "Still open for business?"

It's all Enjolras can do to repress a sigh. "If you're just here to mock—"

"I wasn't mocking at the meeting, I was trying to help. And I'm here to support you." He clears his throat and shifts his grip on the giant stuffed bunny he must have won from Cosette. The sight of it makes Enjolras do a double-take, because he had to have spent at least twenty bucks at Cosette's booth in order to earn enough tickets for that prize. Enjolras figured the most they could hope for as a contribution from Grantaire was a few bucks spent on the chilled beers that Bahorel is selling over on the other side of the carnival.

Enjolras gives the money in Grantaire's hand a tight-lipped look and figures that he'd better not discourage Grantaire's impulse to contribute, or he might never have another one again. "We're still open," he says, and puts the money into the box and leans out through the kissing booth's window, lips pursed.

Grantaire rears back at first, eyes going wide like Enjolras has somehow taken him by surprise. Enjolras huffs out an annoyed breath, says, "You paid for it, are you going to collect or not?"

Grantaire's brows crease. He takes back the space that he puts between them, hesitates when he's close enough that Enjolras can smell the faint sourness of beer on his breath but not close enough to kiss. And then with a frown like he's steeling himself to do something awful, he leans in and presses his lips to Enjolras's.

Enjolras presses back for the count of three, then eases away. When he opens his eyes, Grantaire's are still closed. He has his hands curled over the edge of the booth's window, his fingers tight. He doesn't open them, his eyes or his hands, as he asks, "Can I have another turn?"

It is a fundraiser, after all, so Enjolras shrugs, though Grantaire can't see it. "Sure, it's your money."

Grantaire digs for his wallet, lays a five dollar bill on the counter between them, and leans forward to catch Enjolras's mouth before he can think of a protest that isn't, _You're doing this for the wrong reasons._

Grantaire's lips part this time, and it's not against the rules but Enjolras wants to tell him it is, wants to tell him he shouldn't. Instead, he catches his breath as Grantaire draws Enjolras's lip into his mouth, scrapes his teeth over it, strokes his tongue over it and leaves Enjolras gasping against his mouth.

It's Grantaire who ends it, Enjolras has lost track of time. He eases back and stares at Enjolras like he's shellshocked, and Enjolras stares back.

"Enjolras," Grantaire says, hoarse, like Enjolras isn't the one whose legs are trembling so hard that he has to press his knees against the booth's facade to keep them from giving out beneath him. "Christ. You're undervaluing yourself."

Enjolras runs his tongue over his lips and marvels that they're tingling, when he hasn't had that reaction once all day, with any of the others he's kissed for the sake of their fundraising. Grantaire's eyes track the movement and he grips at the booth's edge with one hand, fumbles with his wallet with the other. 

Enjolras scarcely notices when Grantaire presses a fistful of bills into his hand, he just wraps his arms around Grantaire's neck and kisses him back.


	2. Narcissus and Echo

Enjolras is staring at himself again, bent over the pool and caught by his reflection, a wrinkle marring his brow like he can tell there's something wrong about this, a man as vibrant and passionate as Enjolras lost by the love of his own reflection.

Grantaire knows there is. He doesn't know who or how or why, but he remembers the man Enjolras used to be and he _knows_ this must be some god's or goddess's curse, like the one that stole Grantaire's words from him and left him with only those spoken by others. 

Grantaire would tell him, if he had his own voice. But Enjolras hasn't grown suspicious enough to wonder out loud yet. He stares down at his own face and wonders, "How can anyone be so beautiful?"

"So beautiful," Grantaire sighs around him, in the rustle of leaves and the burble of the creek that feeds into the pond.

Enjolras can't see him. Enjolras has never _seen_ him, not really, that's half the problem. He leans more intently down toward his own reflection. He reaches a hand out and swears when his fingers create ripples in the pool, distorting the image. "Won't you come here, so I can tell you properly how I love you?"

"I love you," Grantaire whispers in the sigh of the wind through the trees.

Enjolras is too clever and too bold to be fooled by this curse forever. Someday, he will voice his doubt, and Grantaire will be there to give his words back to him, and lead him back to the truth.

Perhaps that day, Enjolras will see him at last, but even if he doesn't, Grantaire will count himself satisfied.


	3. Pyramus and Thisbe

The wall is cool and rough against Enjolras's cheek as he leans against it, waiting. The night is still around him, carrying only the whisper of the breeze through the trees, the occasional faint, distant sounds of people who haven't yet retired to their beds. He shuts his eyes and strains to hear.

Finally, there it is. The scrape of a shoe on stone. A sigh. And then a whisper, through the crack in the wall. "Enjolras?"

"Grantaire." Enjolras leans his forehead against the stones and smiles, swamped by relief. "I thought maybe you weren't coming."

"Always. I always will." Another sigh through the wall, a rustle like that of the leaves overhead, shading both of them from the lamps that burn inside Enjolras's house, and that he must assume burn in Grantaire's as well. "I made you something."

The sound grows louder, and a folded-up piece of paper is pushed through from the other side. Enjolras grabs it and opens it, traces the lines on the page with fingers gone unsteady at the thought that Grantaire had touched them, had _made_ them, just moments ago.

It's a sketch, and it's meant to be of him, and it makes Enjolras smile all the harder. "Closer," he says, moving closer to the crack in the wall again, so Grantaire can hear him. "But you've still made me far too pretty."

Grantaire's muttered, "I doubt that," comes through intelligibly.

Enjolras presses his hand beside the crack and wishes with everything in him that he could reach through the narrow space that separates them and touch him. "Next time," he says, his voice gone abruptly rough, "I want one of you."

The silence from the other side of the wall is longer than Enjolras thinks the request warrants. "You don't want that," Grantaire says at last. "I'll be a terrible disappointment. You'll start rethinking that wife your father keeps trying to foist upon you."

"I want to see you," Enjolras says, firm.

This time, the silence is even longer. "Tomorrow," Grantaire says, and it's a promise.

Enjolras presses his fingers to the crack and pretends the coarse stone is actually soft skin. "I'll be here," he says, and that's a promise, too.


	4. More Pyramus and Thisbe

It takes care and planning and several more months of whispers through the wall, but finally they're going to meet, with no walls or stones between them. On the day, Enjolras is a mess of nerves. He can scarcely eat, and he remembers nothing of what's said to him throughout the day, or what he says in response. All his thoughts are on tonight, on Grantaire.

Finally the sun sets, and night descends. Enjolras claims exhaustion and retires to his room early, but he couldn't sleep if his life depended on it now. He paces by the window until the house has settled down to their own beds, and then he creeps out into the night.

There's a glade nearby they've agreed to meet at, each coming by separate routes so no one will suspect. Enjolras calls out a quiet, "Grantaire?" when he arrives, but receives no reply, so he settles down beneath the shelter of a tree to wait.

Nerves and anticipation twist through his stomach, but he isn't forced to wait long. Perhaps a quarter-hour has passed when he hears the noise of someone moving through the grasses, and he jolts to his feet, his heart in his throat.

There's a sharp cry, of fear or of pain. Enjolras knows that voice, and it sends him rushing forward instantly. "Grantaire?" He keeps his voice hushed out of necessity, but it travels far enough, because Grantaire becomes a still, dark shape in the night, and then gives a breathless laugh. "I thought you were a lion. All that hair..."

Enjolras frowns and pulls it back self-consciously, but Grantaire makes a wounded sound and comes forward. "Oh, don't. Let me look at it, so I can remember it well enough to draw it." His voice goes sharp and a little desperate. He takes Enjolras's hands and pulls him out of the shadows, to where the lamps illuminate the path. "Let me look at you."

Enjolras fears discovery, but the idea of returning to his home and the wall between them without getting to see Grantaire as he really is, not the insufficient conjurings of Enjolras's imagination, is a worse thought. He lets Grantaire guide them both onto the path, and when the light falls across Grantaire's face he is robbed of speech.

Grantaire can speak for the both of them. He stares at Enjolras and gives a little breath, and then a strangled laugh. He reaches one hand toward Enjolras's face, then hesitates to touch. "You liar," he breathes.

Enjolras finds his voice, enough for a few words. "I beg your pardon?"

"All those portraits you told me were too pretty, and now here you are and none of them do you justice."

It makes Enjolras frown. "And what about you?" Enjolras isn't afraid to touch. He reaches and fingers a curl of Grantaire's hair, cups his cheek and thrills at the shiver that runs through him. "The drawings you gave me were of another man entirely. I'd have never recognized you by sight."

"I drew only what I saw in the mirror." 

"Your mirror lies, or you are a dreadful artist. You had me half convinced you were an ogre."

Grantaire's brows crease, confusion and bewilderment. "And you came anyway?"

"If you had been the lion you mistook me for, I'd have still come. I would still be right here." His thumb has been grazing Grantaire's cheek while they speak. He slips it down to brush the corner of Grantaire's mouth. "But you're as fair as anyone I've ever seen."

Grantaire's lips curve beneath Enjolras's touch, a wry smile. "You must have never looked in a mirror at all."

"I love you," Enjolras says, because he's been holding those words back for months now and can do so no longer. He didn't want to have the wall between them when he spoke them. He wanted to be able to see Grantaire's face and watch his reaction.

It does not disappoint. Grantaire's eyes goes wide and his lips part and he stares at Enjolras, joy dawning across his face as slow as sunrise, and just as transformative. "I love you," he answers on a breath, and Enjolras isn't sure which of them moves first but it doesn't matter, because in an instant they're in each other's arms. Enjolras sighs into Grantaire's hair at the feel of him, solid and bony and _real_. And then Grantaire turns his head with a grip in his hair and his mouth is on Enjolras's and they're kissing, sharing breath, shuddering against one another.

"I love you," Grantaire says again when they part, firmer this time, and Enjolras is going to have to learn to draw so he can capture the way he looks when he says it, so Enjolras can remember that expression forever, no matter what walls or other barriers stand between them.


	5. Vampire!Enjolras

"Okay. Open your eyes."

Enjolras does, the first time he's been allowed to do so since Grantaire dragged him away from a conversation with Combeferre about their undead rights campaign and shoved him into his car, declaring that he was being kidnapped and he'd better not put up any fuss if he knew what was good for him.

Enjolras had humored him with a smile, and kept his eyes obediently shut through the long drive, and now he opens them and his smile slips from indulgent to bemused. "A planetarium?" He turns to Grantaire with a puzzled frown. "You know I see the stars every night, right?"

"I know," Grantaire says. He still sounds sure and a little smug, so he must not be done with the surprises yet. "I talked Courfeyrac into lending me the keys for the night. It's all ours." The room is dim, and empty but for the two of them. There are a hundred seats to choose from, but Grantaire gestures with a jerk of his chin to where a blanket's been set up in the middle of the floor, so Enjolras goes and sits, and leans back on his elbows to gaze up at the false, featureless sky overhead. The projector hasn't even been turned on yet, so all it looks like now is plaster and shadows.

Grantaire sits beside him and lays himself out on his back. He pushes and prods at Enjolras until he's got his head pillowed on one of Enjolras's arms, and then he presses a button on the little remote in his hand and the sky overhead comes to life, full of stars that shine steadier than any of the real ones outside.

Enjolras has been to planetarium shows before. He expects a booming voice talking about cosmic dramas that span millennia, perhaps for the view overhead to spin and alter as though hours or days or months passed in the matter of moments.

There's only silence, the quiet sound of Grantaire breathing beside him, a little faster than normal. Enjolras glances at him, but he's got his gaze overhead, and he nudges Enjolras in the hip without looking away. "Hush. You'll see."

"I didn't say anything," Enjolras points out.

"You were going to."

Enjolras shifts his elbows out from beneath himself, laying on his back beside Grantaire and following his gaze to the stars overhead. Grantaire loves stargazing. Enjolras can remember a time when he used to, but only dimly. It's been too long since the stars were the only sky he could see, and they've lost their novelty.

Moments pass and the stars stay motionless overhead, the speakers remain quiet. Grantaire's still breathing fast, though, still grinning hard at the projection overhead. Something's coming. Enjolras shifts across the blanket so he's pressed closer to Grantaire's side and settles in to wait for it.

It's a few more minutes before he notices it, an almost-imperceptible dimming of the sky overhead, blackness giving way to grey, stars fading out one at a time, too gradual to notice. Enjolras starts to suspect, and catches his breath.

Grantaire must hear it, because he slips his hand into Enjolras's and squeezes tight.

One side of the dome above them grows brighter faster than the other, black bleeding to grey and cobalt and to blue. Colors erupt across it, streaking red and orange and gold as the edge of the horizon grows brighter still, blinding. Enjolras squeezes Grantaire's hand back and fights the prickle of tears in his eyes, because he'll be damned if he's going to let even a moment of this be lost to him.

The thin edge of a projected sun appears on the horizon's edge, and rises slow into the planetarium's sky, burning bright red through imaginary clouds as the whole dome overhead is overtaken by the colors of the sunrise.

When the brilliant colors fade to the blue of morning sky, Enjolras rolls, pressing his face into Grantaire's shoulder and gripping his hand just as tight as ever. "Thank you." His voice is tight, his words unsteady.

Grantaire is still smiling. "Do you want to stay here a little while?"

Grantaire knows him so well. Enjolras loves him so much. "Yes. Please."

"Okay. There's no rush." Grantaire curves his arm around Enjolras's shoulders and holds him close. "We've got all the time in the world."


	6. E/R - outsider POV

"They're at it again," Jehan says as Courfeyrac lets himself into the apartment, though it's not like the warning's necessary. Courfeyrac could hear the shouting from halfway down the hall. 

"I'm all set." He brandishes his own copy of the laminated sheets that Jehan, Bossuet, and Bahorel all have spread out on the coffee table they're seated around. "Where are we at?" 

"Good-for-nothing, dire predictions about the fate of the world, accusations of alcoholism, reckless furniture endangerment, and everybody gets terrible communication skills as their free space," Bossuet says, and hands Courfeyrac a marker so he can play along. 

"Ooh!" Jehan perks up from where he's sitting with his head cocked to the side, listening to the muffled argument rattling their walls. "You-could-be-so-much-more, we haven't gotten that one in a while." 

"Also, I've got ten bucks on over thirty minutes," Bahorel says. 

Courfeyrac digs his wallet out of his purse. "Five says they're still griping at each other over it in the morning." 

Their game started off simple enough, as a betting pool the rest of them started every time Enjolras and Grantaire go into an argument, over how long they each predicted this fight would last. It's morphed over the course of the semester into something that's half betting pool, half drinking game, and half something else entirely. The booze isn't out yet, Courfeyrac notes, so they must not have been arguing long. Usually the rest of them don't make it much past fifteen minutes of screaming before they start taking shots out of self-preservation, to dull the pain. 

" _Ad hominem_ attacks," Bossuet says abruptly, and gives a fist-pump of victory. "I _knew_ that one couldn't be far behind, they can never resist it for long." 

"Oh, oh." Jehan twists, staring toward the bedroom door they both retreated behind. "They've quieted down. Bossuet, what does that put us at? Twenty-five minutes?" 

"Twenty-eight. Close enough that I think we can give it to Bahorel, don't you?" 

"I still think they're going to be sniping at each other over it in the morning," Courfeyrac says, but hands his five over. A sound from the bedroom catches his attention and makes him grab for his marker. It is definitely a moan. "Hate sex!" He marks it off on his card with a flourish. "Bingo! I win!" 

Bahorel complains that it's no fair, Courfeyrac hasn't even been playing for more than five minutes, while Jehan takes Courfeyrac's card and double checks it (after an entire year of putting up with the fighting, their betting-drinking-bingo game is _serious business_ ), declares the bingo legitimate, and cedes the best spot on the couch as Courfeyrac's winnings. 

"Ten says they're at it for more than an hour," Bossuet says, grimacing at the sound of Enjolras's headboard banging against the wall. 

"Christ," Courfeyrac mutters, and rises from his spot. "I'll get the vodka."


	7. E/R - secret dating shenanigans

"Grantaire." Enjolras's voice is unsteady and he hates it. He wants to be strong for this. He _needs_ to be strong for it. Because when it comes to will power, Grantaire obviously has no strength at all. "You can't." 

Grantaire hums, pressed in close enough that their chests brush, that Enjolras can feel the vibration of it passing between them. "Your tie's crooked. I'm fixing it." He grasps it by the knot and tugs it straight, a little more forcefully than Enjolras thinks is warranted. "It's a boyfriend's prerogative." 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and takes a breath, and it makes Grantaire's hand tighten on his tie. "You can't say that, either." 

"We are, though." Grantaire leans in and claims a light, tease of a kiss. Enjolras kisses him back because he has to, because strength and will power only go so far when he's got Grantaire's mouth on his, Grantaire's lips turned down into an unhappy frown. "It may be a secret, but it's not a lie." He says it firmly, but there's a question in his eyes, an uncertainty that asks, _Is it?_

"It's not a lie," Enjolras echoes, and frames Grantaire's face in his hands and kisses him so he'll believe it. "But it has to stay a secret, R, it has to, you know this." 

Grantaire nods, his mouth still curved down, and leans into the kiss. They're standing in a hallway with a hundred people two rooms away, but the hallway's empty so Enjolras relaxes his iron grip on his determination for just a moment and lets himself indulge in it. 

And then there's the sound of footsteps in the hall and Enjolras tears his mouth away and shoves Grantaire back to a less-suspicious distance. It's only Courfeyrac who comes around the corner, and Enjolras's gaze is caught on Grantaire and the wounded way he's staring at him. 

"There you are! Come on, it's time—" Courfeyrac's voice trails off and his steps falter as he nears. He glances between the two of them and Enjolras's stomach twists into a knot of nerves. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck,_ he thinks, as Courfeyrac looks confused, and then voices the obvious question. "What are you two doing?" 

And Enjolras scrambles, his thoughts suddenly slippery with panic. It's Grantaire who answers him first, with a smile that seems bright but is strained around the edges. "He may be our fearless leader, but he can't tie a Windsor knot to save his life. I was helping him." He gives a tug on Enjolras's tie, to show Courfeyrac, but mostly, Enjolras thinks, to make Enjolras suffer. "Can't have him going out there looking unpresentable, can we?" 

Courfeyrac's confusion clears, and his face brightens. "Definitely not." He turns his attention back to Enjolras. "I was just coming to find you to tell you you're on in ten." 

Enjolras thanks him, and doesn't move at all until Courfeyrac's gone down the hall back the way he came and disappeared around the corner. And then Enjolras slumps, his back against the wall, his head bowed forward. 

Grantaire doesn't speak and doesn't move, and when Enjolras glances up at him, he's giving Enjolras a hard, accusing stare. "He's our friend." 

Enjolras sighs and straightens, though it suddenly feels as though it takes a herculean effort. "And he can't keep a secret to save his life." 

"He's our _friend_ , and we're lying to him." 

Enjolras shuts his eyes. "R," he says, and leaves it at that. He doesn't say the rest, because Grantaire _knows_. He knows Enjolras's reasons, and he agreed to them, if not with them. 

Enjolras is a politician, and his campaign is gaining more attention every day. And when Grantaire first grabbed him after a successful debate and kissed him, fast and fierce and so wonderful it had set Enjolras's whole world on end, Enjolras had made him promise that if they were going to do this, they were going to keep it secret. Because he knew, they both knew, that a political campaign is a grueling road, and it's not just the candidate who gets put through the wringer. It's his family and anyone close to him, too. If it were known that he and Grantaire were dating, then that scrutinizing, merciless eye would be turned on Grantaire, and Grantaire's not prepared for that. It's not the life he set out to have, and he would be standing under the glare of the spotlight not because he chose it for himself, with open eyes and a clear understanding of the consequences, but just by virtue of his association with Enjolras. And Enjolras won't have him put through that, not on his account. 

"Fuck politics," Grantaire sighs, breathed out into the space between them, and when Enjolras opens his eyes, he looks broken. "I hate it." 

"I know." Enjolras reaches a hand out, because there are limits to his strength, and staying aloof while his boyfriend is hurting is something he can't do, not for anything. 

Grantaire takes his hand and lets himself be pulled in. Enjolras folds him into his embrace and holds him close, breathing against his hair. Grantaire doesn't say anything, but his breathing is ragged, and that says enough. 

"We'll tell the others," he whispers into Grantaire's hair. "We'll swear them to secrecy, and then we'll tell them. Soon." 

He thinks Grantaire will fight him on that last point, that he'll want it immediately. Enjolras holds onto him tight and breathes the scent of his shampoo from his air and thinks, _Please, just let me have you to myself, just for a light while._

Grantaire just nods, his face pressed against Enjolras's shoulder. And the hall is empty and they have a few more minutes yet before Enjolras has to step out into the limelight, so Enjolras keeps his arms tight around Grantaire and lets himself have this for just a little while longer.


	8. E/R - undercover married shenanigans

Enjolras thought the hard part was going to be learning the identities of the operatives whose place they were taking. There were names and dates and places to learn, a thousand little facts to memorize, any one of which would give them away if they weren't delivered with automatic perfection. Enjolras is good at learning things and taking on new identities — it's kind of a requirement for this job. But still, that's the challenge he had prepared himself for. 

He was wrong, though. Learning his identity is easy. The hard part comes later, once they're at the hotel, mingling with the other guests on the dance floor, trying to look like a normal married couple while they wait to make contact with the foreign agents who are expecting to meet them (or at least, the people they're pretending to be) there. 

It's having Grantaire draped against him, his arm across his shoulders, his breath in Enjolras's ear. It's the ring on Grantaire's finger and the easy kisses he drops against Enjolras's mouth and the knowledge that this is all pretend, even if Grantaire secretly means it. 

It's having to pretend back, to smile when Grantaire presses close instead of panic and retreat, to make himself reach out for contact like it's natural, not a violation of every instinct of self-preservation he possesses. It's when he kisses back, and Grantaire makes an unexpected sound against his mouth, and suddenly they're really kissing, not light, fond pecks but deep and open-mouthed and hungry, like any passionate couple would exchange. 

It's wanting more and knowing he shouldn't and knowing he has to, for the sake of the role. 

The hardest part is pretending the feelings are false, when really, none of it is pretend at all.


	9. E/R - myth, flower, jealousy

"Fun fact," Jehan says as they wheel their grocery carts through the floral department on the way to the checkout stands. "Did you know that hyacinths were the flowers dedicated to Apollo?" 

Grantaire eyes a stem of yellow ones and impulsively puts them in his cart, because any excuse to send flowers to the guy he is maybe-sort-of-kind-of-not-exactly dating is a good one, and any opportunity to tease Enjolras about his nickname is an even better one. 

*

Half a week later, there's a knock at the door that turns out to be a delivery man from a local florist with a vase full of pretty little white flowers that look rather like morning glories. 

_Convolvulus!_ Jehan texts back when Grantaire sends him a picture of the vase on their kitchen counter. 

Pretty as they are, Grantaire can't imagine why Enjolras would have chosen the flowers if there weren't some deeper meaning, so on a whim, he googles it. Maybe convolvulus is Latin for "irrepressible cynic" or something, and Enjolras is getting his revenge. 

Google says that, in the language of flowers, convolvulus means "extinguished hopes", and Grantaire's stomach drops down into the pit of his stomach. 

*

Grantaire's website says that calla lilies mean regret and folly, so he sends Enjolras a bouquet, because it seems like the perfect way to express how he feels about whatever stupid thing he did to upset Enjolras. It's a really big bouquet, because Grantaire is _really_ fucking sorry. 

The next day, Enjolras sends him a bouquet of daffodils, the funny-looking ones that are white with yellow trumpets. Grantaire sits in front of them and frown at them, trying to ponder it out, until Jehan gets home from his shift. He walks in the door, sees the vase and the flowers, and says, "Uh oh." 

Grantaire looks up at him, dread already settling into his stomach. "If you're going to make ominous comments like that, you might as well tell me why, or I'm not going to be able to stop worrying." 

Jehan comes forward and sets his bag down on the counter. "You know the myth of Narcissus?" 

Grantaire nods. "Vanity, ego, punishment by the gods, horrible people getting their just desserts, it's pretty standard fare for the Greeks." 

"Wellll." Jehan inclines his head toward the vase. "We call them daffodils. The Greeks called them narcissus." 

Oh fuck. 

*

Grantaire can't find a website that tells him what flower means "I'm really sorry, I'm not sure how I fucked up but please forgive me anyway, please don't end our relationship before it's even actually begun", so he decides he's going to have to bite the bullet and deliver the message himself. 

He shows up at Enjolras's front door, and the ten seconds it takes between when he knocks and when Enjolras answers it has his stomach in knots. "I'm sorry!" he says before Enjolras can do more than blink at him in surprise. "Please, just tell me what I did and then tell me how to make it up to you, _please_." 

Enjolras keeps blinking at him. "What you did?" 

"You sent me narcissus! I'm not sure what I did to give the impression that I'm full of myself, when I'm the first one to sing out about how fucked up I am, but please, tell me what I did and I swear I'll never do it again—" 

Enjolras steps back, letting him into the apartment. "I sent you _daffodils._ " 

"Jehan says the Greeks called them narcissus." 

"I'm not Greek. And they didn't come from Jehan, they came from me." 

Grantaire turns around in the middle of his living room, facing him. "Then why did you send them?" 

Enjolras's brow knits. "I thought they would cheer you up. They're bright, and happy, and if that didn't do the trick, then I figured the meaning would. Daffodils mean regard, or respect, or 'the sun shines when I'm with you'. Or all of the above, in some cases." 

It's all Grantaire can do to gape at him. "But why did you think I needed—" 

"You sent me _calla lilies_ , R, for fuck's sake. Those are funeral flowers, you know. If that wasn't a cry for help, I don't know what is." 

"Not sadness. _Regret_. I—" Grantaire takes a deep breath. "I am so confused." 

"You aren't the only one." 

He moves across the living room, sits down carefully on the edge of Enjolras's couch. "Let's back up," he says, and his head is spinning, his heart is pounding. "This started with the hyacinth, right?" 

Enjolras lowers himself beside him. "Right. And I don't know what I did to make you jealous, so—" 

"What? _Jealous?_ Oh my god, no." Grantaire leans his head in his hands. 

Enjolras hesitates a moment. "Yellow hyacinth mean jealousy." 

"Hyacinth were the flowers people dedicated to Apollo. I thought it was funny." He drops his hands and looks at Enjolras. "And the ones you sent to me—" 

"Bindweed," Enjolras says. "They mean confusion or uncertainty, because I thought—" 

"That I was jealous. Right." It is taking all the strength Grantaire has just to keep breathing and not to hyperventilate. This is such a clusterfuck and he is going to kill Jehan. "I thought they were convolvulus. Google says convolvulus mean extinguished hopes. I thought I'd done something stupid to upset you." 

"And then the calla lilies," Enjolras says, understanding dawning in his voice. "Regret and folly." 

"Christ. What flower means 'I'm an idiot'?" 

Enjolras shakes his head slowly and reaches for Grantaire. He curls his fingers in his collar and pulls him in. "I don't know. Which one means 'I am too'?" 

He seems intent on pulling Grantaire in for a kiss, and Grantaire is not about to stop him. He sighs against Enjolras's lips and enjoys it for a moment before he draws back. "Talking is overrated. Let's burn our dictionaries." 

Enjolras nods and tightens his hands on Grantaire's shirt. "Definitely," he says, and pushes Grantaire down under him on the couch.


	10. E/R - make me cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS** for self-harm

The first time, Enjolras holds Grantaire in his arms after they've spent themselves. Grantaire sleeps, and Enjolras runs his hands over him in the dark and catalogues the ridges of scar tissue that pass beneath his fingers, long tracks of them that march across the insides of his arms and across his thighs. He kisses the back of Grantaire's neck and runs his hands over them until he knows them by heart. 

Enjolras makes a point of kissing the scars. He doesn't draw attention to them, he doesn't say that he knows. But he kisses them, because they're part of Grantaire and as worthy of love as the rest. 

The first time Grantaire lets him leave the lights on, Enjolras makes it a point not to look, not to stare. He wants to see, wants to know beyond just the feel of it what Grantaire's done to himself, but he's not sure he can stomach it, so that makes it easy, in the end. He keeps his eyes on Grantaire's, and watches the flicker of surprise there, followed by uncertainty. 

When Grantaire recoils from Enjolras's kisses and rejects his touch, Enjolras doesn't push. For a week, Grantaire tenses every time Enjolras gets near, watches him warily like he thinks Enjolras is going to press the issue. Even the most casual of touches makes him jump. 

A week later, Grantaire stops Enjolras with both hands on his chest, a determined look set on his face as he pushes him back to the bedroom and kisses him like he's trying to prove something, to himself if no one else. 

He doesn't make Enjolras turn the lights off, but he won't face Enjolras either. He's on his elbows and his knees, his face turned in against his arm as though to hide. Enjolras only notices it when Grantaire throws a hand out to brace himself against the headboard — another scar, pink and puffy and newly-healed, another soldier joining the regiment marching up his arm. 

Enjolras presses his face to the back of Grantaire's neck and wraps him tight in his arms and does his best to show him how much he is loved. 

He hates those times the most, the ones when Grantaire withdraws, when he starts wearing pajamas to bed even though it's the middle of summer and still sweltering out, when his gaze goes distant and haunted in quiet moments and there's nothing Enjolras can do or say to make any of it better. He hates waiting, not knowing what new marks he'll find on Grantaire's skin, what new evidence of the pain that Enjolras can't take from him and can't make any easier to bear. 

He comes home early from work one day, calls out Grantaire's name as he lets himself inside, and gets only a choked sound in response. He follows it across the apartment, down the hall to the bathroom, where it resolves itself into broken sobs. 

Enjolras leans against the door, his forehead pressed to the wood, and fights to breathe. "R? Can I come in?" 

The sobs choke off, turn strangled and broken. 

"Please let me in." 

"Oh God, Apollo, go away." 

"I'm not going to leave. I'll wait out here until you feel like coming out, if that's what you want, but I'm not going to leave you like this. And I want you to keep talking to me." 

Grantaire sighs something that sounds like, "Bastard." Silence stretches until it feels like it's lasted an eternity. Enjolras strains to hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. 

"R? Come on. Talk to me. Let me know you're still there." 

"I hate talking to people through doors," Grantaire says, resigned. And then, "It's not locked." 

It's as close to an invitation as Grantaire is capable of, and Enjolras knows it. He tries the handle. It turns under his hand and he steps inside. 

Grantaire is sitting on the edge of the tub, hunched over like there's no strength left in him. He has a towel pressed to his arm, red soaking through. He doesn't even lift his head to look at Enjolras as he comes in, just turns his head away like maybe he can hide from this, even now. 

Enjolras drops to his knees in front of him. His hands cover Grantaire's where they're pressing the towel to his arm. "Look at me, please." 

Slowly, Grantaire turns forward again. He lifts his head, just enough to meet Enjolras's eye through the hair falling in his face. 

"What do you need? Tell me. What can I do?" 

Grantaire runs his tongue over his lips. His voice, when it comes, is cracked and uneven. "Are you going to fix me, Apollo?" 

"I just want to help you, if I can. If you'll let me." 

Grantaire drops his head forward. "Some things can't be fixed. Some things are too broken, too rotted through. Sometimes the only thing to be done is to raze it to the ground, clear the way for something new, something better and brighter." He looks up again, looks at Enjolras like he's the sun, like he doesn't mind going blind. 

_Is that what you're doing?_ Enjolras wants to ask. _Tearing yourself down? Clearing the way? If you fall apart and crumble down, then what? Then will you stop this?_

He doesn't know how to help, but he knows that that won't do it. He pulls Grantaire off the tub's edge and into his arms, wraps him in a tight embrace and holds onto him as Grantaire shakes inside his arms, and his breath hitches, and he starts to sob against Enjolras's shoulder.


	11. E/R - Frozen AU

Spires of ice rise high, twisted and glittering in the thin sunlight. The beauty of it steals Enjolras's breath just as much as the cold does, despite his furs. 

Grantaire stands in the middle of it all, his arms crossed, looking as cold and inaccessible as this fortress he's built around himself. "Go home, Enjolras." His words are biting. 

"I can't do that. I won't. Not without you." 

"I don't know what use you think I'd be there, to any of you." Grantaire looks down at his hands like they've betrayed him, like he hates them. "I'm better off here. You're all better off with me here." 

"I'm better off _with you_." Enjolras moves forward and catches Grantaire's hand before he can pull away. Grantaire's eyes go wide and panicked. He tries to jerk back, but Enjolras holds on to him, even when ice crystals start forming between their palms, prickling at his skin. "And I'm not leaving unless we both are." 

"I could make you," Grantaire says quietly, sweeping a hand out that has spires of ice rising up all around them, like the bars of a prison. 

"You could try," Enjolras agrees. "I'd never stop fighting you." 

_"Why?"_ The word is an explosion, agonized. "For god's sake, I just ruin everything." 

"You don't. Even now, you haven't." Enjolras squeezes his hand. The ice crystals bite deeper, making him catch his breath. But then the warmth of his palm melts them away. 

Grantaire stares down at where their hands are joined like Enjolras has just worked magic.


	12. E/R - Athelstan bodyswap AU

Enjolras's meeting comes to an abrupt halt when Bahorel swivels around in his chair, pins Grantaire with a look, and says, "All right, that's the third that's-what-she-said opportunity you've let slip by, what gives?" 

Grantaire blinks at him, his eyes wide in what Enjolras is expecting to be disingenuity, except that he doesn't follow it up with a sarcastic comment, just keeps staring and blinking like a deer caught in headlights. "Nothing gives," he finally says. 

Courfeyrac snatches the wine bottle off his table and peers down the neck, then grunts and fixes a frown on Grantaire as well. "You've barely touched it," he says, his voice accusing. 

Joly comes over to hover beside him like it's all he can do not to go into full-on mother hen mode. "Are you sick? Have you been feeling unwell?" 

"I'm not sick," Grantaire says, and sinks down into his chair, his shoulders drawing up. 

It's an unwelcome distraction from the issue at hand, but now that everyone else is harping on it, Enjolras frowns at Grantaire across the room and realizes, "You haven't argued with me once all night." 

It's the fatal blow. Everyone else glances at one another and a ripple goes through them as they realize he's right. In moments, Grantaire's sitting at the center of a circle of frowns, blinking up at them all and looking more cowed than Enjolras has ever seen him. 

"Um," he says, and scratches a hand trough his hair. "So. There's been a bit of an… incident." 

It takes him a long time to explain what ends up boiling down to a fairly simple concept. He's someone else, someone with the improbable name of Athelstan, and for some unknown reason, he's taken Grantaire's place inside his own body. 

"Does that mean R's in yours?" Combeferre asks, arms crossed and a thoughtful look on his face. 

"Oh God." Athelstan looks horrified. "How bad do you think he's treating my body? I'm going to wake up half-drunk and hungover, aren't I? Oh, God." 

"We'll help you," Enjolras says impulsively, surprising himself no less than the rest of the Amis. "We'll help you figure out how to get back to yourself." 

Grantaire-who-is-not-Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, his face eloquent with gratitude. It's so wrong, that expression sitting on Grantaire's face, when Enjolras has never seen it on him before in all the years they've known each other. "Really?" He sounds awed by the offer. 

"Of course." 

The open, earnest expression shifts slowly to suspicious. He watches Enjolras through narrowed eyes. "Really?" he says again, dubious this time. "Why would you do that? You don't know me from Adam." 

"Whoever you are, however this happened…" Enjolras sighs. "I want to get my friend home. I'm not being completely selfless, there is definitely an ulterior motive." 

The person-who-is-not-Grantaire hums thoughtfully, like there's something he has to think about. And then he lifts his brows at Enjolras again. "Even though apparently all he does is argue with you?" 

Enjolras gives the question the attention it deserves. He thinks about it, brow furrowed. "Yes," he says at last. 

Athelstan gives him a long, searching look before finally it breaks, and he smiles. "I know a couple people like that. Even when they look like they want to claw each other's faces off, it's obvious they love each other more than anything. I'd like to get back to them, too." 

"I don't—" The words dry on Enjolras's tongue, choking him. _I don't love him._

That's not what's important here, though, is it? 

So he nods instead, swallows down the unspoken words, and says only, "Let's figure this out then, shall we?"


	13. E/R - Orpheus and Eurydice

Enjolras stares at him, horror twisting his expression. "Grantaire, no. You didn't—" He reaches out to lay his hand on Grantaire's arm. Grantaire feels only cold, like the touch of winter air, but whatever Enjolras feels it makes him lose his breath, makes his knees sag. "You didn't," he says again, this time not a question. 

"Didn't what?" 

"Die for me," Enjolras says, hushed, like even the words are too horrible to bear. 

Grantaire gives a crooked smile, but he can't manage to make himself mean it, not with the trial that still awaits them. "No. I'm too greedy for that. I _came_ for you." He takes Enjolras's hand, ignores the prickle of ice that crawls up his arm. "And now we're leaving." 

Enjolras's brow knits. His expression turns impossibly sad. "I'm dead, Grantaire. I can't leave." 

"You can. I've talked Hades and Persephone around, and they've agreed to allow it." 

_"How—"_

"I am really incredibly charming. That, or they got tired of hearing me moan about how much I loved you, but either way." He clasps Enjolras's hand tighter. 

"There's a trick. There's always a trick." 

And this time, Grantaire's smile is nothing but bitter. "Of course there is." 

"Tell me." 

"We're walking out of here, you and I. But I have to lead you out, and I can't look back." His mouth goes dry with the fear that he's tried to keep at bay all this while. He swallows, and pulls Enjolras in close by his hand. He leans his brow against Enjolras's and breathes unsteadily. "You have to follow," he says, an unsteady whisper. "Please, for once in your life, be content to let someone else lead." 

"I'll follow," Enjolras answers, equally hushed. He brings his hands up to Grantaire's cheeks. Grantaire shivers. "And you have to trust." They both know it's a tall order. 

Grantaire summons the most convincing smile he can. "I'll do my best." 

"I'll follow you anywhere you lead, Grantaire. I won't fall behind, so don't look back." 

"I won't," Grantaire promises, a quiet oath, and means it. "I won't look back. So you'd better be there when we come out." His voice breaks. He doesn't care. "Because if you aren't, I'm coming back for you, and if they won't let you out again, then I'm staying."


	14. E/R - love triangle shenanigans

"I am Bella Swan," Grantaire moans into his chemistry book. 

Éponine's steps slow as she passes him. A moment goes in silence, and then she ventures, "Adorably clumsy? Hopelessly in love with a man who'd as soon kill you as return your affections?" 

Grantaire snorts a humorless laugh. "That, too. But it's not how I meant." 

"What, then?" 

He lifts his head enough to see her, the point of his chin digging into a page about covalent bonds. "Jacob," he says succinctly, and Éponine rolls her eyes with sudden understanding. 

"Oh Christ, R. Who?" 

"Combeferre," he admits, and knows he deserves no less when she groans. 

"His best friend? Are you mad?" 

"He's smart," Grantaire says. "Scary smart. And kind. And he gets all passionate and worked up about things and how am I supposed to hold strong against a guy with a cause? And he looks _really good_ in glasses." 

Éponine lowers herself into the chair across the table from him. "And unlike a certain other scary-smart, passionate man with a cause, he's actually attainable. You could do worse." 

Grantaire stares at her a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. "Oh God," he says at last. "I _am_ Bella Swan." His attentions turned to the one who's near, and available, when the other is out of his reach. This is how terrible life choices are made. 

"Ep," he says. "Are you Team Edward or Team Jacob?" 

She gives him a look that probably means he's being ridiculous. "Bella's Edward and Jacob, or yours?" 

"Either. Both." 

"Well, I suppose the answer is the same either way." She lays a hand on his head and ruffles his hair. "I'm Team Bella, if anything." 

"That is a remarkably unhelpful answer." 

"It isn't, really. I promise." 

He narrows his eyes at her, but no clarity comes. In the end, he lays his head back down on the textbook with a groan. High school relationships are even more confusing than organic chemistry, he decides, and he washes his hands of the whole lot.


	15. E/R - all the cliches

Grantaire has been in Paris all of an hour when he meets the most gorgeous man he has ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon. 

Of course, how Grantaire meets him is by running face-first into him while distracted by his phone, and of course, the gorgeous man in the red coat does little more than shoot him an irritated look before he hurries on his way, because that's just the way life works for Grantaire. 

*

Grantaire next sees him in the coffeeshop near his hostel, because of _course_ it's in a coffeeshop. 

He's in burgundy today, and Grantaire ends up standing next to him at the end of the counter while they wait for their drinks and he tries to flirt, but the man in red just gives him a long, flat look, then says, " _Excusez-moi?_ " and follows it with a long string of French too rapid-fire for Grantaire's limited comprehension to keep up with. 

" _Merde_ ," he mutters, because he knows that one, and isn't it just his luck that he's already halfway to crushing on a guy he can't even have a conversation with. 

*

They don't see each other at the café every day, but often enough it's clear they've both got routines, and both their routines frequently lead them there at about the same time every day. 

It's easy, then, after two weeks of carrying vocab cards with him everywhere and staring at the guy in red from across the café, to rearrange his schedule and show up early, and explain what he wants to the barista (who, thank god, knows English, because Grantaire's vocab cards are not sufficient for this situation), so that when the guy in red shows up Grantaire's standing there with his own drink in one hand, and the guy's usual drink order in the other. He's been steeling his nerves all afternoon so that, when the guy shows up, Grantaire can walk right up to him, smiling all the while, press the cup into his hand, murmur, " _Pour vous,_ " and then sail off on his way. It takes everything Grantaire has not to look back and watch to see if the guy in red turns his cup around, if he sees where Grantaire has scrawled in marker on the side, " _Appelez-moi peut-être?_ ", if he even recognizes the reference or knows who Carly Rae Jepsen, over here on this side of the world where they probably have their own artists to listen to. 

He is a ridiculous human being and he knows it, and know the guy in red knows it too, but Grantaire grins all the way back to the hostel. 

*

"He has a dog," Grantaire mutters to Éponine when the guy in red (whose name, he has learned, is Enjolras, and of course he has a name that's as uniquely amazing and terrifying as he is) sends him his first out-of-the-blue text, the first one that isn't prompted by Grantaire asking him something specific, requiring a response. It's a picture of Enjolras with his arm around a dog and it is entirely unfair. "Why does he have a _dog_." 

"Cute guys always have cute dogs," Éponine says. She is no help at all, even from half a world away. "It's like a law of the universe. That way if you manage to resist the attraction of one, the other one sneaks up and takes you while your defenses are down." 

"This is not helping," he says unsteadily. 

All she does is laugh at him. 

*

They date for two weeks, and their first kiss happens outside, and it's marvelous until Grantaire breaks away, laughing quietly. Enjolras's brows knit and he frowns down, demanding explanation. 

"The stars are out," Grantaire says. "And we're in _Paris_ , and there's the Eiffel Tower just over there, and this could not get more cliché if I tried. 

Grantaire's French is still highly limited. Enjolras's English is better, but only marginally. His brow remains furrowed like he's still trying to puzzle through Grantaire's meaning. 

"Never mind," Grantaire says, and pulls Enjolras in to kiss him again. 

*

Of course they break up, because Grantaire can't ever manage to keep his mouth shut, no matter what language he's speaking. And Grantaire is miserable and everything in Paris seems about five shades greyer and not even Éponine is any help, no matter how she tries. 

And then they get back together because Grantaire goes to Enjolras's flat and pounds on the building's door and shouts up at his floor in really terrible French until finally Enjolras takes pity on his neighbors and comes down to speak with him, and then suddenly they're kissing, arms wrapped tight, breath shuddering into each other's mouths, and it's winter and the rain is pelting down onto them and it feels like something out of the sort of movie that Grantaire would never have the patience to watch, but it's theirs, and that makes it perfect.


	16. E/R - Sleeping Beauty

Fairies clearly don't know much about domestic chores, or at least, not the one who laid the curse on Grantaire. He's supposed to prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel? Spindles aren't even sharp. He's not worried. 

He fails to account for the effects of time and age on spinning wheels that have gone unused and unoiled since the day he was born, and cursed. He's sixteen and there's a grand party and he stumbles upstairs afterward, tipsy on the wine that his godmothers broke out for the occasion. He trips over his own feet and falls against the spinning wheel, catches himself with a hand upon the spindle and feels the sharp jab of a sliver of dried, neglected wood piercing into his thumb, and has just enough time to think, _Oh no—_ before the world goes black around him. 

*

The next thing he knows is the soft press of someone's mouth against his, the warm rush of air against his cheek. He stirs, and the boy pulls away — and it is a boy, Grantaire's own age perhaps, perhaps a year or two older, dressed in the style of townsfolk and with a halo of golden hair around his head that would make him look angelic if it weren't for the fierce look on his face. 

Grantaire pushes himself upright and frowns at the other boy. "I don't know you," he says. 

"I'm Enjolras." 

"Do you make a habit of kissing strangers in their beds, Enjolras?" 

The other boy's brows snap down into a scowl. "Are you going to blame me for that? Everyone here knows about the curse, knows that a kiss is required to break it. No one else felt like fighting their way in here to give it to you. Would you rather you still slept?" 

What everyone knows is wrong. It's not a kiss that's required to break the curse, not _just_ a kiss, but true love's first, and it's that that has Grantaire narrowing his eyes at the stranger in front of him and wondering why. 

He asks as much, though he keeps the details about the curse and its undoing to himself. 

He shouldn't have. It starts the boy — Enjolras — off on a diatribe about fairies and the tyranny of their curses and blessings alike and how it wasn't in him to sit by like everyone else while Grantaire slept in the tower that loomed over their town, not when all that was required of him was bravery, a bit of fortitude, and a kiss. 

_And love,_ Grantaire thinks. Enjolras is burning bright before him, and he thinks maybe he understands why it is he does, or will, love this boy. 

But Grantaire doesn't suppose that anyone so violently opposed to the tyranny of fairy blessings is going to look kindly on the concept of true love, so he says nothing about that, just swings his legs off the bed and smiles and says, "I owe you a great deal. Take me to meet with your friends, then, and we'll see if I can return the favor. I'd like to help."


	17. Evil twin brother

" _Dude_ ," Bahorel says, smacking Grantaire's arm and squinting from their table in the corner of the cafe at the man who just came in and joined the line. 

He is the spitting image of Enjolras, except that his hair is shorter and his scowl is even sharper. And, it turns out, except that he is a _monster_. 

He spends the whole time in line being a jerk on his phone to someone who sounds like she's his secretary or personal assistant, and when he gets to the front of the line and starts to order, it takes him approximately two seconds to make Cosette's face go pale, and then bright pink with barely-repressed rage. 

"Holy shit," Grantaire mutters. "I always figured if he had a twin, _Enjolras_ would be the evil one." 

"Totally," Bahorel agrees, and Grantaire digs out his phone to take a picture for posterity.


	18. E/R - flower, hands, spring

Marius and Cosette have a spring wedding, to absolutely no one's surprise, and of course they all attend. The church is full of flowers that fill the air with their perfume, and the reception is in a garden so bright and bursting with the colors of its blooms that it seems the plants themselves are celebrating. The Amis are given a big table at the very front, the table for Cosette's fathers and immediate family on one side, the smaller table for Marius's stern-faced grandfather on the other, and the Amis right smack in the middle like they're family too, because they are. 

Jehan makes flower crowns from the centerpieces for the flower girls and other children — and a few adults who sidle up to him with brightness in their eyes and put in a whispered, bashful request — and the others mingle to give their congratulations and meet Cosette and Marius's friends and family, and Grantaire drinks, for once just because the wine is excellent and he's happy. 

It's hard not to be, with Cosette's brilliant smile lighting up the room and Marius his constant, pleased presence at her side. Even Éponine seems to be enjoying herself, and genuinely happy for them, despite the history between her and the groom. 

There's cake and dancing and laughter, and then there's the unavoidable call for all the single women to gather on the dance floor for the throwing of the bouquet. Most of the Amis settle back down beside Grantaire at their table to watch (though Jehan joins the crowd of bridesmaids and other women with an irrepressible grin) as Cosette stands before them all, turns her back, and throws the bouquet high overhead. 

Grantaire can't even say that he isn't watching it, and so doesn't see his doom coming straight at him. He is watching, and he sees the bouquet bounce off of the reaching fingertips of the women clambering to grab it, giving it just enough height and distance for it to reach their table and fall straight into his hands like it had a homing device leading the way. 

The rest of the table erupts into delighted laughter and many of them clap Grantaire on the back as though in congratulations. Cosette comes over, grinning, to wish him cheeky congratulations, and refuses to accept when Grantaire tries to press the bouquet back on her. 

"No, it's yours now, that's the tradition." Her eyes are bright and full of mischief and it occurs to Grantaire to wonder if maybe the bouquet's arrival in his lap hadn't been intentional after all. "Keep it." 

"What the hell am I supposed to do with it?" he demands, but she just shrugs and drags Marius off to the dance floor. 

Two songs later, there's the call for the garter toss, and a chair's brought forward for Cosette to sit on as the single men crowd onto the floor for their turn. Grantaire hmphs and turns to say something to Éponine, sitting beside him sneaking bites of her cake to Gavroche, and so this time he misses it entirely. 

There's a wet plopping sound and a loud cry up from the group, and Grantaire turns with a sense of foreboding. Of _course_ the garter ended up at their table, too, and of course it landed right in _Enjolras's_ champagne glass. 

He fishes it out, soaked and dripping. And then, by some miracle, he catches Grantaire's eye across the table, and he actually _smiles_.


	19. E/R - secret, fluff, smut, caught

"Seriously?" A laugh catches in Grantaire's throat. " _The most nihilistic misanthrope you've ever had the misfortune to meet_? Laying it on a bit—" His laughter fades off to a moan when Enjolras bites at the slope of his shoulder. "—a bit thick, don't you think?" 

Enjolras sucks a bruise right over the place where he bit. "They bought it, didn't they?" 

"One of these days it's going to be too much." Grantaire threads his fingers through Enjolras's hair and holds him in place. "They're going to realize." 

Enjolras shakes his head. The movement makes Grantaire's fingers tug at the strands of his hair, but that just whets the edge of his desire. They're circumspect, they're always circumspect. They keep it to bickering and displays of animosity in the meetings and when in front of their friends. It's or in the privacy of their apartments — or in their more desperate moments, like now, once everybody has filed out of the _Musain_ and back to their own homes and their own lives — that they let slide their grip on the reins of desire. 

Their friends were not moments out the door, tonight, before Grantaire was clambering up from his seat in the back, ignoring the wine bottle he knocked over in his haste, and pushing Enjolras back against the wall, their mouths crashed together like they're the only source of air in the world. 

Enjolras rubs the heel of his hand against Grantaire's cock through his strained pants, grinning sharply at the sharp breath Grantaire takes, the way he growls against his mouth and presses his hips against Enjolras's hand. "Like this?" Enjolras asks, grinding in harder. 

Grantaire gasps and then swears against his mouth. _"Yes,_ fuck. Apollo, please. Oh Christ." 

"Or should I suck you off?" Enjolras nuzzles his lips in against Grantaire's ear. "Take your cock out right here, hmm? What do you think of that?" 

Grantaire thunks his head back against the wall. "Mercy," he breathes. 

Enjolras is not inclined to be merciful, not when Grantaire is against him like this, bowed and shaking. Not when the threat of discovery is burning through his veins, making everything sharper and better. He sinks down to his knees and holds Grantaire against the wall, hands fit close around his hips. Grantaire gulps air when Enjolras works his zipper down and takes his cock out. He scrabbles at the wall, his hands fisting on air, when Enjolras swallows him down to the root. 

There's no time for patience with the threat of discovery hanging over their heads. Enjolras sucks him, palming himself through his own pants, until Grantaire's hips buck desperately and he comes down Enjolras's throat. 

When Enjolras climbs back onto his feet, Grantaire grabs hold of him, a hand curling around the back of his neck as he pulls Enjolras in for a hungry kiss. The other slips down Enjolras's stomach and grasps him, and Enjolras leans his forehead against Grantaire's shoulder and shudders. 

He's already close, just from this, but with Grantaire's hand wrapped firm around him it's a matter of moments until h's coming, smearing across Grantaire's hand. He slumps forward, fighting to catch his breath. 

He doesn't get the chance. While they're still panting against each other's mouths and fumbling at their clothes with clumsy hands, the door swing opens and someone bursts inside, calling, "Enjolras, are you still here? I can't find my— _oh_." 

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and shifts so he's shielding more of Grantaire. "Get out, Courfeyrac," he growls. 

"Oh my god." Courfeyrac's laughter is equal parts sock and amusement. 

"I'm sorry, I— Jesus. How long has this been going on between you two?" 

"None of your business," Enjolras says at the same time that Grantaire says, "Six months, give or take." 

"Aw, damn it!" Courfeyrac's expression twists with dismay. "I had money on ten. Fuck you guys and your emotional constipation, you should've been boning for a year at least if there was any justice in the world at all." He stalks back out without even looking for what it was he returned for. 

"Everyone's going to know inside of ten minutes," Grantaire murmurs against Enjolras's chest. 

Enjolras's lips curve as he tugs Grantaire's pants back up onto his hips and zips up the fly. "Let them know," he says. "They'll be insufferable for a few weeks and then it'll blow over." 

"We're not going to stop doing this, are we?" 

Enjolras grins and bites at his jaw. _"Definitely_ not."


	20. E/R - lips, emotion, red

Grantaire's mouth is swollen and split from a punch meant for Enjolras, and Enjolras's hands are shaking. He fists them in Grantaire's shirt to keep them steady, drags him away from the brawl because the other Amis are holding their own just fine and Grantaire's bleeding. 

His eyes are bright and a little manic. He sweeps sweaty curls off his brow with the back of his wrist and pulls against Enjolras's grip. "What were you thinking?" Enjolras demands. 

Grantaire's grin is lopsided and biting. "Couldn't have him ruining that pretty face of yours, could I?" 

"Damn it, Grantaire!" 

He wipes his mouth and blood leaves a red smear across it. Enjolras can't let go of him. The sounds of brawling are coming from very close and Grantaire's hurt, his lip swelling up already, and it's all for him. 

If he leans in and covers Grantaire's mouth with his own, it's only because emotions are running high and he can't be held responsible for his actions. Grantaire goes frozen against him, then makes a sharp sound and presses his. Enjolras tries to hold him back, tries to keep it gentle, all too aware that he's wounded and that Enjolras could easily hurt him. But Grantaire growls and grabs handfuls of his hair, and uses it for leverage to pull him into a kiss that's harder and faster than Enjolras would allow, if he had any choice at all. 

When Enjolras breaks away, Grantaire's mouth is red for reasons that have nothing to do with the blood or the bruise. His eyes burn like firebrands. He is so pretty and so wild and Enjolras wants to pin him down and soothe all that wildness out of him, then coax it back to life for an entirely different purpose. His blood is singing, but for this instant it's forgotten all about the fight. Everything else is lost beneath the blue of Grantaire's eyes and the vivid red of his mouth.


	21. E/R - schmoopy girlfriends

They're at prom and "My Girl" is playing and there's only a few weeks of school left and Grantaire just straight-up does not give a fuck anymore, so she grabs Enjolras from where she's sort-of dancing with Combeferre to keep the chaperones from glaring, and Grantaire drags her into the middle of the dance floor where the press of other couples around them will make them less conspicuous, and she pulls Enjolras close and breathes, "Dance with me." 

Enjolras is stiff for a single moment, and she looks like she's going to refuse. Grantaire grips her hand tighter and mouths, _Please_ , and Enjolras goes soft all at once. She uses Grantaire's grip on her hand to pull her in, slips her arms around Grantaire's back while Grantaire wraps hers around Enjolras's neck, and they lean against each other and sway to the music. 

"I love you," Grantaire whispers, soft enough for just the two of them to hear. 

Enjolras's lips curve, bright and shiny with lipstick, the first time Grantaire has ever seen her wear it, but she put on makeup tonight like she was putting on armor before a battle, strong and defiant and her eyes blazing. "I love you so much," she says back, breath soft against Grantaire's lips. 

Grantaire wants so badly to kiss her, but the smear of Enjolras's lipstick across her mouth would give them away. 

"It's only a few more weeks," Enjolras murmurs, and Grantaire isn't even startled by her apparent psychic abilities anymore. Enjolras has always known Grantaire even better than Grantaire knows herself. "Go on. Be brave. We already have all the credits we need to graduate. What's the worst they can do to us?" 

Grantaire tips her head to the right angle and kisses her, kisses her hard, and Enjolras kisses back. Her hands go tight on the bare skin of Grantaire's back and they both forget the pretense of dancing, just holding on to each other and kissing one another breathless as the last notes of "My Girl" fade out around them.


	22. E/R - "Do You Remember" by Jack Johnson

The first time, it's innocent enough. Grantaire's late to class and all the spaces in the bike rack have already been claimed by more punctual students. He swears loudly and ignores the disapproving glares from the other students passing by him, on their way home or to their own classes. 

He could find an emptier rack outside another lecture hall to chain his bike up, but then he'll be even later than he already is. He could prop his bike up unchained and take his chances that no one else will ride off on it, but he can't afford to lose that sort of gamble. Good bikes aren't cheap, and he's living on ramen most nights as it is. 

He's about to resign himself to having to make up another excuse for his absence to his professor when he sees a familiar bike at the end of the rack, its bright red paint nearly lost in the flowers that Jehan had painted on in a fit of boredom one summer afternoon. 

Breathing prayers of gratitude, Grantaire quickly chains his own bike to it. He wouldn't dare do it to a stranger's, but he knows Enjolras won't take a hacksaw to his chain — or God forbid, his bike — just to get free of it. With his bike secured, Grantaire runs inside the hall and claims the first seat he finds in the back. 

An hour later, he's nearly forgotten about it, his thoughts occupied with the lecture and tonight's homework and who he can get the notes he missed from. He comes out of the hall lost in his own thoughts and comes up short in front of Enjolras, leaning against the bike rack with his arms crossed and his mouth thin. 

"This isn't funny, R," he snaps, and kicks at the wheel of his bike, rattling the chain between them. "I was supposed to meet Combeferre half an hour ago, we're going to have to rearrange our entire schedules to figure out how to make up that time." 

"Sorry." Grantaire grins, unrepentant. "What are you doing over on this side of campus, anyway? You don't have lecture here." 

"I came to talk with my lit professor about my essay, now will you _please_ unlock your chain?" 

"Anything you want," Grantaire says, and does so. "Where are you headed next? I'll ride with you." 

Enjolras huffs a sigh and tells him. It's not really on Grantaire's way to his next class, but he lies without missing a beat. They argue the whole way across campus. 

The next time Grantaire pulls his bike up in front of a rack and sees Enjolras's bike there, there are plenty of other spaces available, but he just can't help himself. 

*

"Grantaire, _honestly!_ " Enjolras just left the party two minutes ago, but now he's back, storming into Bahorel's apartment and slamming the door behind himself. "Every time, why do you have to do this _every time?_ If you'd just _give me a copy of your key_ I'd be happy to lock your bike back up for you before I left, I don't understand why you won't, I don't understand why you do this _every time_." 

Grantaire is lying on Bahorel's couch, still coming down from the last few rounds of drinks. He's not drunk anymore, not really, but he's still buzzed enough that sleeping it off here seems the wiser choice than trying to wobble his way home on his bike in the dark. He sits upright at Enjolras's entrance, and there's still enough alcohol left in his system to make his tongue loose, to send the words slipping out before he can think better of them: "That would defeat the purpose." 

They're a little slurred and a lot unsteady, but Enjolras seems to get the gist well enough, considering the way he comes forward and scowls at Grantaire. "What purpose? To make me crazy?" 

"Maybe a little bit." Grantaire struggles to his feet. He wobbles a little bit, and when Enjolras reaches out to grab his elbows and keep him upright, Grantaire stares down at where Enjolras's fingers press against his skin and tells himself it's no more than Enjolras would do for any of their other friends. "Mostly it's an excuse." 

Enjolras looks like he's about to explode with frustration. Grantaire would feel worse about that, but it's such a good look on him. "An excuse for _what?_ " 

"Christ. I don't know. To spend time with you. To get you to talk to me. Take your pick." 

Enjolras stares at him a long, long moment. "I talk to you all the time." 

"At me. You talk _at_ me all the time." 

"For fuck's sake, Grantaire! Pissing me off is not the way to foster conversation!" 

He lists forward and Enjolras lets him, taking Grantaire's weight against his shoulder rather than letting him topple onto his face in the carpet. "I dunno, it seems to have been working pretty well so far." The room is spinning but Enjolras's face is steady before him, and Grantaire is maybe a little drunker than he thought. Or maybe that's just the effect Enjolras has. He stares at Enjolras's face, very close and very angry and very beautiful, and drops his voice to a hush. "You know how they say when kids or dogs act out, it's because they want your attention? And even negative attention is better than none at all?" 

Enjolras is incredibly quiet and incredibly still. "You are so stupid," he says at last, and puts his hands on either side of Grantaire's face, and pulls him in and presses a kiss to the middle of his brow. "And I am not going to talk to you about this when you're this drunk." 

"I'm not drunk, let's talk, please talk—" 

Enjolras shakes his head. He slides his hands down to Grantaire's shoulders, and that light pressure is enough to force him to drop back down onto the couch, sitting at its edge and craning his neck to stare up at Enjolras. "Sleep it off," he says firmly, fondly. "I'm going to take your key and unlock my bike, and I'll come back and pick you up in the morning, and we can walk your bike home together since I don't think you'll feel like riding with a hangover, and we'll talk then." 

Grantaire wants to talk _now_ , he wants to know what that new look in Enjolras's eye means and if he has any reason to be feeling as hopeful as he is. But Enjolras is unyielding and Grantaire is too drunk to try to push him on it, so he stretches out onto the couch again and does as Enjolras says. 

Morning will come sooner if he sleeps, and Grantaire can't wait to see what it brings.


	23. E/R - Persephone AU

"Let the world burn," Enjolras says, and his smile is cold and terrible. "Let the crops wither and the seeds rot, what do we care. Your mother holds no dominion down here, and men may eat asphodel when they've come to join us." He pulls Grantaire in with an iron grip on his wrist, bends his head and breathes against the hair at his crown. "What do we care if men die? They will all come to our realms eventually." 

Grantaire lifts his head. It tips his face up, brings it very close to Enjolras's. His breath skates across Grantaire's skin, warm, coming a little fast. Grantaire's mother is closing in on them, has rallied half of the rest of the pantheon by threatening the crops and the men who need them to survive. Grantaire curves the hand that Enjolras isn't holding around the back of his neck and rises up on his toes to kiss him hard. 

"I care," he says as he sinks back down onto his heels, and watches the victory on Enjolras's face turn to fury. 

"We are wed," he snarls. "You're _mine_. Your mother would take you from me and never let you return. And you are deathless." He lifts a hand and skates his thumb across Grantaire's cheek. "Were you a mortal man, I'd content myself to wait until you'd lived your life and returned to my realms at the end of it. But gods don't die, and your mother will never allow you to return, once she has you home." 

He doesn't say _And I'd miss you_. He doesn't have to. 

"There's another way," Grantaire says, and slips in close again. Enjolras bends as though he's expecting another kiss, and Grantaire slips his hand into the pocket of Enjolras's coat, and pulls out the pomegranate there. 

Enjolras's eyes burn as Grantaire splits the pomegranate open. Juice spills over his fingers and runs down his arms, stains the edge of his sleeves. Grantaire pries a handful of seeds from the fruit, then lets the two halves drop. Enjolras's grip would be tight enough to bruise, were Grantaire not as immortal as he. 

He eats the seeds, one at a time, and when he's finished Enjolras takes both his wrists. He kisses his red-stained fingers, kisses the trails up his arms, kisses his mouth. 

Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras's neck and clasps him close. "Let her come," he says. "Let her take me. Now, she cannot keep me." He pulls back, tips Enjolras's face up with fingers that leave stains along his jaw. He presses their brows together and holds on with all his strength. "I'll come back. I'll always come back."


	24. E/R - Talljolras and Tinytaire

"He's never going to kiss you." 

Enjolras turns and gives Courfeyrac a betrayed look. "Your faith is touching." He doesn't have to ask who Courfeyrac's talking about, or how he knew what Enjolras was thinking about, because Enjolras is constitutionally incapable of being subtle and he knows it. Everyone knows it. 

Courfeyrac sighs and rolls his eyes. "I don't mean he doesn't want to. Of course he does, he's just as stupid over you as you are over him, I don't know how the two of you can be so _oblivious_. But look at him." He jerks his chin towards where Grantaire is sitting in the back of the Musain, a sketchbook propped against the edge of the table, a pencil behind his ear and another in his hand, his brows pinched in concentration. "If you're waiting for him to just stride over and lay one on you and make this all easy, you're going to be waiting forever. One, he'd have to believe he actually stood a chance with you, and that's not his style. And _two_." Courfeyrac rocks his shoulder against Enjolras's, grinning in a way that means he's teasing. "You're like a million feet taller than he is. He'd have to climb you like a tree just to be able to reach." 

That idea is one that's worth pausing and considering for a moment. When Enjolras finally tears himself back to reality, he's grinning like an idiot, he's sure. He shakes his head at Courfeyrac and tells him, "He does parkour." (And _that_ was a sight worth seeing, the first time they were walking through campus late at night and suddenly Grantaire was _flying_ , leaping up railings and off the sides of lecture halls like he was Spiderman it had left Enjolras gaping, so ferociously turned on that he'd had to excuse himself and hurry back to his dorm before he embarrassed himself in front of all of them.) 

Courfeyrac snorts, amused. "I'm just saying. If you want there to be kissing, you're going to have to be the one to make the first move. He won't." 

Enjolras grumbles and mutters something about doesn't Courfeyrac have studying to do, but his gaze stays on Grantaire even after Courfeyrac's left, and he's thoughtful. 

When the Musain has closed for the night and kicked them all out, the group separates to make their ways to their own dorms and apartments. Enjolras ends up walking alone with Grantaire. Usually they have Courfeyrac with them to keep things from being too awkward, but tonight he loudly proclaimed that he was going to spend the night at Combeferre's and then winked obviously at Enjolras, and abandoned them. 

They've been walking in silence ever since, because Enjolras can't think of a single thing to say and every time Grantaire glances sidelong at him with a little puzzled frown it just makes his tongue tie into even more complicated knots. 

He's thinking about what Courfeyrac said, he's thinking about how he really, _really_ wants to kiss Grantaire, and he's thinking about what a tragedy it'll be if that never happens because Grantaire's too short and Enjolras too much a coward. When they're nearly to their dorm hall, where there will be other students crowded around, being noisy and distracting and having no respect for privacy at all, desperation wins out over nerves and Enjolras stops Grantaire with a hand around his wrist in the light of a lamp post. 

"Can I—" he starts, and he thinks it's a good start but then Grantaire turns to look at him, his brows lifted in question, and all Enjolras's words fly right out of his head. 

This is ridiculous, he was the captain of the debate team in high school, he doesn't _get_ nervous with public speaking. But this isn't public, it's _Grantaire_ , and he's looking at him and waiting for him and finally Enjolras blurts, "Can we kiss?" out of desperation. 

Grantaire's brows rocket up, which doesn't seem like a good sign, and his mouth curves, which seems like it might be. He rocks back on his heels and gives Enjolras a once-over that makes him painfully aware of every inch of his height in a way he hasn't been since he first went through his growth spurt in puberty and suddenly couldn't even walk through a doorway without knocking an elbow or tripping over his own feet. 

"I don't know," Grantaire says. " _Can_ we? That seems debatable. We can consult with Joly on the physiological aspects of the problem but off-hand I'd say there's a distinct incompatibility. I'm sure I'd dislocate my spine trying to reach up to you, and you'd probably get a head rush if you tried to come down to my height too quickly, altitude sickness is nothing to mess around with and—" 

Enjolras growls and grabs him by the arms, bends down to prove Grantaire wrong, to kiss him so he'll stop joking around for once and take this seriously. 

Grantaire's words break off the instant Enjolras's lips touch his. He's frozen for a moment, just long enough for clarity to start to return to Enjolras and for mortification to rise up in him. He didn't even get Grantaire's consent, for god's sake, what's wrong with him. But before he can break away and stammer out an apology, Grantaire wraps his arms tight around Enjolras's back to help pull him up onto his toes, and he moans into the kiss, which is great, and he kisses back, which is even better. 

If Enjolras's back is a little uncomfortable when they finally break away to gasp for air, well, that's probably from spending all evening in the Musain's questionably-comfortable chairs. The way Grantaire stares up at him, like he's a miracle Grantaire never thought he could have, is worth any amount of backaches or head rushes or altitude sickness. 

"Okay," he says on a breath, after long moments of staring at each other in the yellow glow of the light. "That's a blow to my hypothesis, I'll admit. But you can't really call it a result unless it's repeatable, now can you?" 

It takes Enjolras longer than it should to realize that's Grantaire's way of saying that he wants to do it again. When he does, he grins and hitches Grantaire up for another kiss. Grantaire squawks a protest, but then wraps his arms around Enjolras's neck and holds on tight and kisses him back, and Enjolras knows that Grantaire's wrong. Height difference be damned, they fit together _perfectly_.


	25. Eponine/Combeferre - adopting a pet

Combeferre's not sure what Éponine's looking for, but she's on a mission, so he contents himself to follow behind her as she prowls through the rows of kennels and cages at the pound. She stops to pet any dog who wags its tail or comes over to sniff her hand, and Combeferre waits for her to be drawn in by one, but every time she moves on after a moment, until they've visited every single dog in the pound. And then she turns on her heel and retraces her steps. 

"This one," she says, stopping in front of a kennel in the middle of the facility. Combeferre comes up to see who she's chosen and he's surprised. It's a young Pit Bull, and not one of the ones who'd come up to greet her as they'd made their rounds. Even now, he keeps to the back of his crate, curled up and watching them mistrustfully. 

"It's going to take a lot of work to win him over," Combeferre says. 

Éponine nods, sure, her face bright with purpose in that way she gets when she's dead-set on something. "It is," she says. "It's going to be worth it." 

Combeferre takes a dog bone out of his pocket and tosses it through the kennel's fencing to the dog. It sniffs the air and eyes the bone for a moment like it's afraid of a trap, then rises and walks over to sniff it directly. After a moment of inspection, it gives it a tentative lick, and then wolfs the whole thing down. 

"No one ever adopts Pits," Éponine says. "He'll be put to sleep if we leave him." 

"It's just going to make room for another dog to be brought in here," Combeferre says, not trying to convince, just making sure she's sure. "Another animal on the list to be euthanized." 

Éponine squares her shoulders and doesn't bend. "You ever heard the parable about the guy and the starfish?" 

Combeferre has, but he shakes his head and lets her tell it. 

"Guy's walking along the beach at low tide, sees a man ahead of him picking up starfish and throwing them back into the water. The first guy asks him why he's bothering, when there's too many miles of beach to walk, and too many thousands of starfish for him to throw them all back. The second guy says maybe, and picks up another starfish, throws it back in. But it made a difference to that one, he says." She turns around and faces Combeferre, tilts her head toward the kennel and the dog. "It makes a different to that one." 

"Okay." Combeferre takes her by the shoulders and kisses her. "Let's go tell them we've made our choice." 

*

Éponine let Gavroche name the dog, and none of them are surprised when he decides on Beast. Gavroche is the only one who's surprised when Beast absolutely refuses to live up to his name. 

Puppy wrestling piles are a regular thing now, and when not rolling around on the floor with one of them, he's most often found wedged into the space between Éponine's and Combeferre's hips on the couch so he can be near to both of them. He runs at the door to greet both of them when they come home from work, and won't settle until they've either picked him up or sat down so he can kiss them all over their faces, and Éponine's determination to keep him off the bed is slowly crumbling. Last weekend he spent the whole night sleeping on it with them, and they all woke smiling. 

"You doubted me," Éponine says, hugging Beast to her chest and smiling at Combeferre across his neck. "Didn't you?" 

"No." Combeferre shakes his head. "Not at all." 

"You said he was going to be a lot of work to bring around." 

Combeferre stretches his legs out across the bed and lays his book down on them to keep his place. "Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?" 

She quirks an eyebrow up. "I'm pretty sure it was _hey, don't mind me, I'm just here to crash the party,_ the first time Grantaire dragged me to one of your meetings at the Musain. But you know I was being facetious." 

Combeferre laughs and shakes his head again. "No. It was before that. The Musain was the first time we met properly, but it was about a week before that. You were in line behind me at the coffee bar and you called me a pretentious hipster douchebag when I gave the barista my order." 

Éponine laughs, pressing her face into Beast's shoulder to muffle her snickers. "To be fair, though, your coffee orders are _very_ hipstery." 

"And I turned around to face you and said, 'Excuse me?' And you threw your shoulders back and stared me down and said, 'You fucking heard me.'" 

"That does sound like me," she says, grinning. 

"So you see." Combeferre leans in and kisses her right on the tip of her nose. "I never doubted you. I already know what kinds of things can come of putting some effort into winning over someone who's just a little bit prickly." He leans in further and kisses her properly this time, slow and sweet until she sighs against his mouth. "I've never had cause to regret it."


	26. E/R - pirate AU

Smoke hangs thick in the air as they throw lines across to the navy ship and haul it in, close enough that they can grab rigging lines and swing over from the deck of the _ABC_. 

The officers have all been lined up on the quarterdeck, kneeling with their heads bowed, Combeferre and Courfeyrac's pistols pointed and holding steady to keep them there. Enjolras walks the line, considering them all. 

"Pirate," the captain snarls, and spits at Enjolras's feet. "Blackguard." 

Enjolras crouches down in front of him and smiles. His face is streaked with soot from the battle, and a cut on his brow drips blood into his eye. "Yes," he says. "I am. And you're an officer in service to a corrupt government. So which of us is the dishonorable one?" 

There's a sound from across the deck, where the rest of the crew has been gathered, separate from the officers. The crew of the _ABC_ haven't made them kneel, but they're keeping them together, keeping them silent as Feuilly gives the usual speech, that anyone who wishes to join their crew would be welcome, that they can't promise regular pay or safety or that any of them will ever see home again, but they can promise freedom, and a chance to fight for what they believe in. 

Some of the crew are looking tempted, some defiant. But there's one who just looks amused, and Enjolras paces over to them to get a better look. 

His dark curls are unruly from more than just the breeze at sea, and his cheeks are red with what Enjolras assumes to be wind-burn, until he gets nearer and smells the reek of wine on his breath. He recoils and gives him a hard look. "What was that you just said?" 

The sailor meets Enjolras's eye and doesn't waver. Probably foolish courage borne of the wine. "I didn't say anything," he says, lifting his chin. "But perhaps you heard me laughing." 

"Is our offer of clemency that amusing to you?" 

"It wasn't amusement." He cocks an eyebrow, inclines his head a fraction, and adds, " _sir_ ," and that makes Enjolras like him a great deal more than he had a moment before. "Just pleasure. Never thought I'd see the day someone had the balls to say what you did to the captain there. If you'll have me, I'd join your crew for that alone." 

Some of the others near him hiss _traitor_ or _treason_ at the sailor's back, but Enjolras stands straighter and considers him anew. "What's your name?" 

"Grantaire. Or R, if you please." 

"You hold no loyalty to your captain, or the Crown he serves?" 

Grantaire curls his lip and answers the question by spitting on the deck. "They pulled me off the merchant ship I was sailing and pressed me into service here. I hold nothing but contempt for the captain, or the Crown." 

Enjolras lets a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, but keeps it faint, keeps his expression hard for just a moment longer. "We don't tolerate drunkenness, aboard the _ABC._ When we have wine in our stores, it's rationed evenly, and you'll be expected to keep a clear head about you." 

Grantaire lifts his gaze, and meets Enjolras's with eyes that are a shocking shade of blue. "Give me something to believe in," he says, "and I won't touch another drop." 

Enjolras lets a beat pass, and then smiles. "Well, then. Welcome to the _ABC_. You can start by showing Bahorel down to the hold and helping him identify which cargo is worth taking, and we'll see what you're made of." 

Grantaire nods and holds Enjolras's gaze for a beat too long. "Aye, aye, Captain," he says with a smirk, and leaves Enjolras staring after him, wondering just what sort of trouble he's gotten himself into.


	27. E/R - oblivious Grantaire

Enjolras's heart is beating in his throat and he's pretty sure he's going to choke on it before he ever manages to get a sound out. Grantaire's chewing on the cap of a pen as he reads his Art Theory book across the table, like he has no idea that Enjolras is about to fall over and die of asphyxia right in front of him. 

"So," Enjolras manages to say, and it comes out kind of squeaky, oh god, this is terrible, everything's terrible. Now Grantaire is looking at him, waiting for him to finish, and he _can't breathe._ "I heard they've invited Professor Simms to campus to give a talk about semiotics, it sounds interesting." 

The interest in Grantaire's eyes dies. He snorts and goes back to his book. "We had him as a guest lecturer last year. He's a blowhard. You'd get better information off of wikipedia and a google search." 

"Oh…" Enjolras only barely manages to resist smacking his head against the table. This is not going at all according to plan. He had a very good plan, Combeferre vetted it and everything. He was going to casually mention Professor Simms' talk, Grantaire was going to be gripped by excitement over the topic and the opportunity, Enjolras was going to casually mention that his professor had offered extra credit points to anyone who attended the talk and wrote up an essay about it afterwards, then he was going to pretend to be surprised by the idea that maybe they could go together, it would be silly if they were both there but sitting by themselves after all. And Grantaire would acknowledge that yes, that would indeed be silly, and they'd go together, and depending on how things progressed Enjolras would maybe inform him afterwards that they'd been on date, because Grantaire couldn't turn him down if the date had already happened. 

But Grantaire is scribbling notes in the margins of his textbook and not interested in the talk at all, and Enjolras pulls his phone out and sends a text to Combeferre. 

_this plan is the worst why didn't you stop me you are a terrible best friend_

Thirty seconds later, he gets a reply. 

_Some lessons can only be learned the hard way. You never would have listened to me if I'd told you it wouldn't work. Did he turn you down? I have ice cream back at the apartment, if you need the consolation._ Ten seconds after that, another: _Courfeyrac says he has vodka, if ice cream won't cut it._

_I DON'T NEED VODKA I NEED A NEW PLAN._

Combeferre doesn't reply. Enjolras is going to promote someone else to be his new best friend. Maybe Courfeyrac, except Enjolras has his suspicions that he and Combeferre are in on this together. Maybe Feuilly, he's always been a sensible sort, he would definitely know how to rescue a failing plan like this. 

But for now, Enjolras is on his own. He thinks frantically, hands pressed against his forehead. Grantaire didn't say no to a date, not technically, he just expressed disinterest in this _particular_ date. Enjolras just needs to come up with a more tempting sort of date to ask him on. 

Oh God, what sorts of dates do people even go on? 

"Coffee?" Enjolras blurts, and he could kick himself, he really could.

Grantaire looks up at him again, though, that's progress. "Sorry?" 

There is a whole flock of butterflies flapping around in his stomach and Enjolras thinks he's going to be sick. "Coffee. You should. We should. I mean, it's getting late. We should get some. Or, we could. So we can stay up. And study." 

A voice in the back of his head is screaming, _ABORT, ABORT, ABORT,_ but Enjolras can't shut himself up. 

Grantaire looks contemplative for a moment, and Enjolras has a second to hope, but then he shakes his head. "I've got a consult with my faculty advisor tomorrow morning, bright and early. If I have any caffeine this late I'm never going to be able to get to sleep, and then I'll be thoroughly unimpressive tomorrow. Trust me, you don't want to see me sleep deprived on a caffeine high." 

Enjolras does, though, he wants to know everything about Grantaire, he wants to be there to witness all of it. 

When Grantaire goes back to his studying, Enjolras decides the only thing to do is to listen to the voice in his head and abandon ship before he sinks completely. "I have to go," he says, and shoves all his books and papers into his bag and hurries away while he still has some scraps of his dignity left intact. 

He hasn't made it fifty feet from the library's doors before he hears the rapid slap of Grantaire's flip-flops behind him. "Whoa, hey, what the hell was that?" 

Enjolras pulls his arm away when Grantaire tries to grab it and pull him to a stop. "It wasn't anything." 

"Are you pissed that I don't want coffee? Because I'm pretty sure Joly has given us at least half a dozen lectures this semester about how caffeine is a drug like any other and not to be trifled with and so I don't think you have any cause to be mad at me for abstaining, and I _really_ don't think you have any cause to be mad at me for actually doing the responsible thing for once and trying to be prepared to meet with my advisor and so I have no earthly clue _how_ I've managed to piss you off this time but I clearly have and I think I deserve to know—" 

"Go out with me!" Enjolras shouts it, spinning around to face Grantaire at last, and immediately wants to sink straight through the paving stones and disappear forever. 

Grantaire gapes at him. "Excuse me?" 

"Never mind, just ignore that please, I've already asked you to go out twice and you clearly don't want to, I'm not mad at you Grantaire I just can only take being rejected so many times in half an hour, so please just let me go and I'll—" 

"No, wait, back up. _What the hell?_ Did I have a stroke or something? You did not ask me to go out with you." 

Enjolras stops and turns to stare at him. "I asked you to go to Professor Simms' talk. And to get coffee." 

"Yeah," Grantaire says. "But you didn't ask me to go out with you." 

Enjolras lets out a sharp breath and spins away again, but Grantaire stops him before he can even take the first step away. 

"Ask me," he says. 

Enjolras stares at him, unable to breathe again. 

_"Ask me."_

"Go out with me," Enjolras says, all on a rush. 

Grantaire laughs, a little high and a little hysterical. "Okay, that wasn't technically a question, but I'll take it in the spirit it was meant," he says. _"Yes,_ you complete idiot, yes, of course." 

Enjolras catches him when Grantaire throws himself into his arms, and for a minute all they do is hold each other. 

"I have the _best_ plans," Enjolras says, tilting his head back to grin up at the sky, and Grantaire doesn't even tell him he's wrong.


	28. R cuddles

Grantaire's not sure how, but he's pretty sure that Les Amis has some sort of collective telepathic ability to tell when he's having a shitty day. Inevitably, all he has to do is grumble once about work and half an hour later Bossuet's showing up at their door with beers, and Feuilly with a selection of DVDs and Éponine with Thai takeout, piling into Grantaire and Bahorel's tiny apartment like they've no idea that this wasn't a planned get-together. 

(Grantaire secretly suspects that the Amis' telepathy is actually Bahorel and his freakish ninja texting abilities, sending up some sort of Grantaire-shaped Bat-Signal, but he's yet to let Bahorel know that he's on to him.) 

Today work was fine, but he's stressing about bills, and he's barely muttered, "Motherfucker," when suddenly half of the group is at their door, crowding in and slinging their arms around Grantaire's shoulders, pressing an icy beer into his hands, chatting about their days so enthusiastically that Grantaire only notices how they herd him over to the couch and down onto it because it's become such a pattern. 

It's pizza today, not Thai, and Enjolras shows up fifteen minutes later than the rest with a box of two dozen red velvet cupcakes. "But the bakery only makes these on Tuesdays," Grantaire says, staring at Enjolras stupidly. 

Enjolras presses the first cupcake into his hand, then ushers him back out of the way as the other's descend. "I asked nicely." 

"I've begged them, I've offered to _pay_ them, _exorbitantly_ …" 

Enjolras grins. "I asked _very_ nicely." 

Grantaire firmly believes that there is very little worse than a wasted dessert, so he eats the cupcake, and tries not to moan too obscenely over it. When he's finished his first and someone has managed to put a second into his hands without him noticing quick enough to protest, they all gather around him and somehow conspire to move him across the room to the couch. 

They shove him down onto it and limb up to join him, pressed in close against either side, everyone laughing and grumbling and jostling for position as Joly disentangles himself from it to dart over to the TV and slide the DVD inside. 

" _Princess Bride?_ " Grantaire says with a raised eyebrow as the opening scene starts. 

"Of course." Joly comes back and insinuates himself into the pile on the couch. "Shut up, you love it." 

Grantaire really does, and it hasn't escaped his notice that the movies Joly brings over are always his favorites. It's a different movie each time, and it's always exactly what he needs. 

Somehow he's at the middle of the pile again. He always ends up in the middle, at the bottom, when these impromptu parties happen, everyone pressed into him from every side, arms and legs draped over him, someone's arm across his shoulders, Enjolras miraculously at the middle of it with him, pressed against his whole side with his chin hooked over Grantaire's shoulder. They feel like the warmest, heaviest, wriggliest blanket, and it never takes more than half a second for Grantaire to sigh and relax beneath it. Halfway through the movie, his bad mood's gone, and by the time it's over, he's smiling and laughing and throwing popcorn at the others, and some of it has gotten caught in Enjolras's hair, and so long as everybody stays close he can't even remember what he was upset about in the first place.


	29. Dance Dance Revolution

Enjolras doesn't realize that Grantaire has superpowers until they're all killing time in the arcade at the theater before their movie starts and Courfeyrac suddenly shrieks, "Oh my god! R, you have to come see this!" 

Grantaire goes over to see what's so exciting, and the rest of them follow because you can't just shout something like that and expect the rest of them not to be curious. 

Grantaire groans as soon as he sees the machine in the back. "Courf, no. No." 

"Come _on._ " Courfeyrac hangs all over him, whining, giving him pleading puppy-dog eyes. "Half of your friends haven't ever seen you do it, and that's just wrong. You can't really claim to know a person until you know their secret talent, can you? All these people calling themselves your friends, and half of them don't know the _real you_." 

It's pretty much a lost cause at that point. Those who know Grantaire's secret egg him on, while those who don't (and Enjolras is chagrined to find himself in the latter group) grow more curious by the minute. 

Finally, Grantaire relents with a groan. "Fine, but you're paying," he grumbles, and shrugs off his hoodie as Courfeyrac feeds quarters into the machine. Enjolras's eyebrows climb when Courfeyrac selects the expert difficulty without even consulting Grantaire. 

Grantaire swings his arms back and forth and twists his spine like an athlete limbering up, and he grimaces at them all as the electronic music starts up and a series of arrows start to slide up the screen. 

Enjolras isn't sure what he's expecting, but it's not for Grantaire to take a deep breath as the arrows near the top of the screen, and then erupt into a flurry of movement, stomping on the game's pads so quickly that Enjolras can barely make his feet out as anything but a blur. 

_Marvelous! Marvelous! Marvelous!_ the game's screen declares with each frenetic beat, and Enjolras can't breathe as he watches him, every movement perfectly coordinated, perfectly in control. He understands what Courfeyrac meant, earlier, because how is it possible that Enjolras has been calling himself Grantaire's friend for so long when he never knew that he was capable of _this_? 

When the song ends, Grantaire slumps back against the rail, gasping and sweaty and looking vibrant despite his obvious exhaustion. "Oh my god, do another one!" Jehan cries, and Grantaire groans but complies. 

After the second someone else demands a third. Grantaire laughs a little hysterically and shakes his head, and so Bahorel asks if Grantaire will teach him. 

Soon everybody wants a turn, with Grantaire's careful guidance helping them choose a song that suits their skill and coordination (except Bossuet, who everyone flatly refuses to let anywhere near the game, the last thing he needs is a broken leg). Enjolras hangs back, watching it all, until Grantaire leans out across the rail and catches his eye. "What about you, Apollo?" he calls, a challenge in his tone. "Are you going to try your hand at it?" 

Enjolras just smiles and shakes his head. "I like the vantage from where I am." 

Grantaire just shrugs and turns back to those who are clammoring for a second turn under his instruction. 

They never do make it to their movie, but Enjolras considers it an afternoon well-spent all the same.


	30. E/R - Gargoyle

No one ever sees him. No one ever looks up. 

But this one does. Does look, does see. And Grantaire panics. He runs. 

He knows better, he really does. Time has given him instincts, has honed them. He knows how to keep itself safe, how to keep himself secret. Running is not the way to do that. But he runs all the same. 

Of course the human follows. It's in their nature. He follows Grantaire up to the roof of the church and corners him there, stares at him in the light of the full moon that does nothing at all to hide the truth of what Grantaire is from him. 

Grantaire crouches as much as he can, when there's no shelter to be had, hunching in on himself. He waits for the inevitable question. _What are you?_

The human stares at him for a long, long moment, his brows knit, his expression intent. "What are you doing here?" he asks at last. 

Now Grantaire is staring as well. "I live here." 

"Why?" 

"I was made for it." This human cannot have missed Grantaire's fangs, his horns, his claws, his vast wings. Sometimes when the moon is thin or new, Grantaire clings to the shadows and imagines he could speak with men without anyone knowing his secret. But not today. Not this human. He stares with eyes that Grantaire suspects could piece even the thickest shadows. 

"Why are you here?" he asks, which is not quite the same question, so Grantaire gives him an answer that is not quite the same, either. 

To his own surprise, he gives him the truth. "Don't you know? We're made to shield those below from evil." 

The human looks thoughtful. "What is your name?" 

His name is not a human name, its sounds cannot be made from human throats. The name he gives is as good an approximation as any human is capable of. 

"Grantaire," the human echoes as though he's trying the name on for size. "I'm Enjolras." And a moment later, "That's just a myth, though. About defending us from evil." 

"Do you think so?" Grantaire uncrouches a little and comes two steps forward. He lets his wings unfurl from his back, spreading out to have their full width, still enough to be impressive. "You tell me, then, since you know so much. Why am I here, and how, if I wasn't made for a purpose? I'm not a human. I don't have your lives, or your choices." 

"You always have choices. If you choose to defend—" 

Grantaire chokes on his laughter, bitter and sharp like the sound of breaking stones. "I don't defend. I _shield_. Do your roofs choose to shield you from the rain? Or is it simply how they are made? The evil that would taint men comes to me instead, comes to me first. I do not choose evil. I do not choose this. It comes to me, and I can do nothing to avoid it." 

"Now that I do not believe," Enjolras says. His voice is brilliant with conviction. He puts the starlight to shame. "You are what you choose." 

"I don't choose evil." 

Enjolras comes toward him, his eyes going soft. He reaches a hand out and Grantaire lets him touch him, lets him glide fingertips across flesh that stone, coarse and pitted and weathered. "A shield," he says, barely a breath. "How can a shield be evil? You protect us all. You're our savior." 

No one has ever called Grantaire anything of the sort. He stares at Enjolras. 

"Do you believe it?" 

"Stick around," he says, hoarse, raw, "and you just might convince me." 

Grantaire is a creature of the night; he's never seen the sun. But Enjolras's smile looks like people's descriptions of it, brilliant and warming and too much to look at straight on. Grantaire feels blinded.


	31. E/R - Emer and Cuchulainn

"Come on, I'm kidnapping you." 

Enjolras glances up from his desk to see Grantaire standing — well, _leaning_ — in the doorway of his dorm room, looking disheveled and much too appealing. "I've got a paper due tomorrow." 

Grantaire comes in with something that looks like a saunter. It's highly distracting. "You finished that paper like a week ago." 

"I think I need to beef up my citations—" 

"Come on." Grantaire catches his hand before Enjolras can evade him and pulls him up to his feet. "I vanquished like two dozen foes in order to get to you, and everyone knows you're going to ace it anyways, I think your citations can wait." 

"R, I really can't—" 

"Fine, you leave me no choice." Grantaire steps in close and Enjolras thinks he means to persuade him kisses or some other underhanded technique, but what he's actually got is much worse. He lifts Enjolras's arm and ducks down and before Enjolras has a chance to realize what's happening, Grantaire has him across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. 

"R, _honestly_." 

"Shut up. I told you, this is a kidnapping. What sort of a kidnapper would I be if I gave up at the first sign of protest? I won't have you thinking me an underachiever." 

Enjolras sigs and lets himself be carried out of the dorm hall, mostly because it seems marginally less undignified to be carried out than to be carried out while struggling for escape and failing to accomplish it. 

The twenty-four foes turn out to be a common room full of fellow students, and Grantaire seems to have vanquished them mostly by drinking them all under the table. It makes the sure, firm grip he has on Enjolras even more impressive. Enjolras wouldn't have guessed he'd been drinking, except for the smell of it on his breath. But he doesn't wobble, and Enjolras doesn't fear being dropped. 

Once they're out of the dorm, Enjolras _does_ protest, and Grantaire puts him down as soon as he starts fighting. He keeps Enjolras's hand in his, though. 

Enjolras looks at it and sighs, and smiles. "All right," he says. "Where are you kidnapping me off to?" 

"We're going on a date." 

"A most foul plan indeed," Enjolras says, dry. "No wonder you had to resort to kidnapping and villainy." 

"Well it's not like you'd have come if I just _asked_." 

Enjolras wants to protest because he _loves_ going on dates with Grantaire, but he holds his tongue because he's self-aware enough to recognize it's true. The semester's almost over and Enjolras is swamped with work and if Grantaire had asked, Enjolras would have had a dozen different obligations convincing him to say no. 

Usually, Grantaire would have just accepted it. This is new. It's kind of nice, for a kidnapping. 

"Very well, then," he says. "This is your kidnapping, it's your prerogative." 

"Damn right." Grantaire grins and tucks his arm through Enjolras's. "So the museum's got this new exhibit about revolutions and revolts through the ages that I thought sounded right up your alley—" 

It takes Enjolras a moment to realize that when Grantaire says "the museum", he means _the history museum_. Grantaire likes natural history museums and he likes art museums, but he hates the historical exhibits that Enjolras is most drawn to. He'd rather looked at articulated dinosaur skeletons or galleries full of the Impressionists than display cases full of artifacts from important battles. Enjolras's heart squeezes tight in his chest as Grantaire walks through the displays with him, smiling and happy and pointing out things that he thinks Enjolras will like to see, not showing the slightest indication that he's as bored as Enjolras knows he must be. 

When they've walked through a dozen exhibits and their feet are protesting the abuse, they buy lunch and eat it out on the grass slope behind the museum. Enjolras finishes his sandwich first, while Grantaire is still picking off his crusts and micromanaging the distribution of tomato and onion slices through the sandwich. He lies on his back in the grass, watching the wispy clouds drift by overhead, and thinks that if Grantaire hadn't come and kidnap him he'd still be in his dorm room wrestling with formatting citations right now, not lazing under the afternoon sun with his boyfriend close and happy at his side. 

"Okay," he says slowly, and doesn't dare look at Grantaire. 

He can still sense the way Grantaire goes still at his side, the way his gaze slides to Enjolras and lingers there. "Okay?" he echoes, confused. 

Enjolras draws a breath and sits up. "Okay. I'll marry you." 

Grantaire's jaw drops. His sandwich slips out of his fingers to make a mess across his lap. He snaps his mouth shut and hunches his shoulders, ducking his head under the guise of brushing lettuce off of his knees. "I was drunk when I asked you that." 

"You meant it." Enjolras has become well-versed in Grantaire's drunkenness, and how he sounds when he's asking something because he's taking the piss, and when he's saying something sincere, but only lacked the courage to give voice to while sober. 

Grantaire plucks the bread of his sandwich into pieces and throws it toward some pigeons clustered nearby. "You said we're too young. That it would be foolish. That we've go school to finish and careers to start and marriage would just be a complication neither of us need and—" 

"I meant it," Enjolras says quickly, before Grantaire can remind him of any more of the unkind things he said while still reeling with shock and disbelief. 

"And now?" Grantaire's voice is thick. He won't look at Enjolras. 

"Now I'm saying okay, and I mean that too." 

Grantaire looks at him. His eyes are wide with hope and fear. "Why? What changed?" 

"Well." Enjolras lies down again, this time with his head in on Grantaire's thigh. He smells like grass and soap and his turkey club. He slides a hand uncertainly into Enjoras's hair, and Enjolras smiles. "You did vanquish twenty-four foes for me. That counts for something."


	32. E/R - Pygmalion

He could feel himself forming out of nothing, parts of him waking up as they were shaped. The artist gave him limbs and he could feel, each scrape of the chisel a caress. The artist gave him ears and he could hear, the music that he played in the background sometimes as he worked, the songs he hummed beneath his breath to fill the silence when the radio was quiet, the debates he held with others in distant parts of the house that were only heard muffled and indistinct. He heard the name that others called the artist: Enjolras. 

Enjolras gave him eyes and he could see, brilliant golden hair and a fierce face that was so expressive, pinched in concentration or eyes narrowed in speculation. Sometimes he looked over the newest piece he had carved and ran a hand over the smooth lines and he smiled, pleased. 

He wanted to make Enjolras smile like that all the time. He wanted to please him. He wanted to be perfect. 

The artist gave him a name: Grantaire. 

The artist kissed his lips and shared his breath, and gave him life. 

Grantaire would have rather stayed stone. 

He loved life, at first. He loved Enjolras. He was made for it — how could he not? He took Enjolras's face between his hands and returned the kisses he'd been given, he graced Enjolras with the same caressing touches, he sighed against his lips and shared the breath Enjolras had shared with him. 

But stone is constant. Stone is reassuring. Stone is only ever as you make it. Stone cannot disappoint. 

To err is human, they say. Grantaire was formed from stone but there are days he feels very, very human. 

He listens through closed doors to Enjolras speak about how he had despaired of humanity and sworn to love nothing but his art, and Grantaire flees the burden of that expectation. 

He discovers drink, discovers the way it burns going down, but then the way it numbs. It makes him feel like stone again, if just for a few hours. 

He discovers the look of disappointment in Enjolras's eyes, and he drinks to forget that, as well. He drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks. 

He wakes to Enjolras by his bedside, looking haggard. His face is pale, his eyes sunken and dark, his hair a disheveled mess. He starts awake in his chair as soon as Grantaire stirs. 

"You can't do that again." 

Grantaire rolls onto his side, his back to Enjolras, his shoulders hunched. "I'm not yours." 

" _Grantaire._ " 

"You have shaped me to your will already. Your work is done. You don't get to command me beyond that." 

"You can kill yourself with drink, you know. You'll _die_." 

Grantaire wonders if he'd go back to stone, if he did. He wonders if it would be better than this, failing his maker, disappointing his creator. 

"I love you," Enjolras says very quietly, so soft Grantaire almost misses it. 

He shuts his eyes and wishes he could pretend he had. "You loved me when I was stone. You loved me when you carved an ideal. I'm not that anymore. I'm just like everyone else you've sworn off." 

"I love you better now than I did then." Enjolras climbs into the bed with him and presses in against his back, presses his face to Grantaire's hair. "I don't want you to be perfect. I just don't want you to destroy yourself. I want you to be happy." 

Grantaire's throat feels thick and painful. He swallows, but it still hurts. "I don't know how. I haven't learned the trick of it yet." 

"I'll teach you," Enjolras says, fierce, and wraps an arm around his waist. 

Grantaire twists to look over his shoulder at him, his sunken eyes and worried face. "How can you teach me something you haven't figured out for yourself yet?" 

Enjolras presses his face to his shoulder and holds onto him tight. It feels comforting. "We'll have to learn together, then," he says, and Grantaire can't do anything but nod agreement. 

If there's one thing he's learned about Enjolras, it's that once he sets his mind to something, there's nothing on earth that can stop him. And Enjolras sounds very, very determined, so Grantaire presses back into his solid warmth and does his best to believe.


	33. J/B/M+R, students of Chiron

Joly is already a student of Chiron when Musichetta arrives, studying healing arts under the centaur's tutelage. He's quiet and thoughtful but quick with a smile, and Musichetta looks at him and feels something twist beneath her breastbone. It could be a premonition, or it could just be something much simpler. 

Musichetta's come to study prophecy with Chiron. She has a knack for knowing who's at the door before she opens it, for finding lost objects in the first place she looks for them, for knowing when to throw a cloak on over her dress before leaving the house even when there's no hint of rain in the skies, for visiting friends just when they are feeling desperately in need of company. But she wants more. She wants to be _useful_. 

Chiron is not an easy tutor. He's taught heroes and gods, and there's a reason for it. They work hard, and they learn, and they grow, and they become dear friends in the way of people who have come through a trial together. 

Musichetta knows before Joly does that he's going to kiss her. She sees it in a vision cast against the backs of her eyelids by the dappled sunlight coming through the trees, and she waits, smiling to herself, to see how long it will take him to work up the courage for it. Then, they are something more than friends. 

When Grantaire comes, claiming loudly that he's come to learn the bacchic rites that Chiron once taught Dionysus but secretly hoping to learn art under the master's tutelage, Musichetta clasps his hand in greeting and says, "We're going to be the very best of friends," the prophecy burst out of her before she can pull it back. 

Usually it alarms strangers when she does that, but Grantaire blinks at her, and then he grins. "Wonderful," he says without a hint of irony, and from then on, its the truth. 

Bossuet comes last, with a lyre slung across his back and music upon his lips. They are friends instantly, all four of them, and can often be found together in the shade of a tree, Grantaire painting and Joly crushing herbs and Bossuet practicing his lyre, while Musichetta lies between them and practices by trying to predict which song he'll play next. 

When Bossuet kisses her, there in the shade of the tree when Grantaire has made himself scarce and Joly has gone off to pick more herbs, she is taken completely by surprise. She flushes pink and doesn't know what to say to either man. 

Some days later, she comes upon the two of them kissing, Bossuet's callused fingers gentle on the side of Joly's face, Joly's mortar and pestle forgotten on his lap as he kisses back so, so gently. 

Musichetta laughs, she laughs and laughs and when they part to look at her, she comes to join them and they all tumble down together, trading kisses freely the three of them. 

("Did you know?" she asks Grantaire later, and he looks at her in surprise and says, "Didn't you?" She shakes her head, grinning hard. She's never been so pleased to be taken by surprise.)


	34. E/R - Robin Hood

"It was a trap," Grantaire says through the iron bars of the door. "You're not stupid. You had to have known it was a trap." 

Enjolras sighs like Grantaire's the foolish one, when it's Enjolras who got himself captured, and half his men along with him. "Of course it was a trap." 

"Then why—" 

"You didn't think it was that silly bauble that caught my eye, did you?" Enjolras's lips curve with warmth and amusement. 

That _silly bauble_ is an arrow crafted of gold, and Grantaire resists the urge to point out that it could keep Enjolras and his men provisioned for a month. "Then why?" he asks again. 

Enjolras wraps his fingers around the bars and holds Grantaire's gaze through them. "There was something else at the contest I wanted." 

Grantaire sighs and touches the backs of Enjolras's fingers. He knows Enjolras means him. "I'd have competed with you all today if I could have." 

"I know that." 

Grantaire had hated every minute of it, trapped on that dais as surely as any prisoner in a cell, forced to play the role of the noble ward of the court as he scanned the crowd for any sign of Enjolras or his men, even as he prayed he didn't find them, because if he recognized them then chances were the Sheriff would, too. He'd have rather been down there with them, but he'd have only increased their odds of capture. 

Not that that seems to matter much now, with them all behind bars despite everything. 

"Grantaire," Enjolras says urgently. Grantaire looks at him. "There are benefits to being a ward of the court." 

He could almost laugh. Enjolras would never endure it, were their roles reversed, but he's willing enough to let Grantaire endure it on his behalf. 

"Did you bring the keys or not?" 

"Of course I did," Grantaire says, and draws them out of the pocket of his cloak. It's the work of a moment to find the right one and fit it into the lock, to pull the door open and free his friends and compatriots from the Sheriff's gaol. 

He follows behind as they hurry with hushed steps toward their freedom. Enjolras falls back to walk at his side. 

Grantaire fingers the heavy iron keys. "It's no secret to the Sheriff how you feel about me. How we feel about each other. Once he realizes the keys are gone, it won't take him longer to figure out I'm the only one who would have taken them." 

"It won't be safe for you to stay at court," Enjolras agrees, his words weighted strangely. 

"I guess I won't have much choice but to join the rest of you in the forest, then," Grantaire says carefully, not looking at Enjolras. This feels like a trap too, like it's too good to possibly be true, like he's doomed to be granted what he wants only to have it be used to ensnare him further. 

Enjolras stops and turns to him, letting the others draw farther ahead. "No. I don't suppose there's any alternative at all." He tightens his fingers around Grantaire's. "It's not a safe life, or often a comfortable one. Would you give up your place at court to join us in Sherwood?" 

Sometimes Grantaire thinks Enjolras doesn't listen to him at all. "In a heartbeat," he says, and kisses Enjolras quick and fierce before pulling him to catch up with the others.


	35. Eponine/Combeferre - Sirens

_If any mortal man shall hear your song and yet pass by, then that shall be the end of you._

That's what Éponine's parents taught her, what their parents taught them. And so she doesn't sing. There is music in her bones, in her blood, rising up in her and begging to be sung, but she keeps her tongue between her teeth and her voice silent. She won't be like her parents, or theirs before them, gleefully luring men to their death. Better to live her whole life and never sing a note, than to take up their legacy. 

She does sing sometimes — she only has so much strength — but she's sure to do it when there are none around to hear and be seduced by her song. 

Today, she has found a meadow, surrounded by thick forest and unlikely to be disturbed by anyone else. With the warm sun shining down, bringing out the perfume of the flowers, she relaxes the iron grip she keeps upon herself at all times, and lets herself sing. 

She hasn't been there an hour when the sound of a twig snapping behind her makes her spin around, the song dying on her lips. A man is there at the edge of her meadow, hands up and eyes wide like he's the one who's been startled and not her, mouthing, "Sorry, sorry," silently. 

"Go!" she snarls, furious, and then stops herself and stares at him, hating him and hating herself for even considering this. 

But she has done everything right. She has done everything in her power to keep others safe, all her life. Why should she have to die now, just because some fool happened upon her in the woods? 

"Wait," she says, gentler, and then sings, "Come." 

He comes — but only two steps, both of them hesitant. Éponine has never known any man to be able to resist a siren's song. One note is enough to have them at the siren's feet, declaring their devotion. 

"Can't you hear me?" she asks, unsure if she's exasperated or hopeful. 

The man's eyes are on her lips. Not her breasts, not her body, not like other men. They fix on her mouth, and when she's finished speaking he shakes his head, taps a finger against his ear, shakes his head again. 

"You can't hear," she says, more lament than revelation, and he nods quickly and smiles, unrealizing. 

_If any mortal man shall hear your song,_ that's what her parents said, what their parents said. And he hasn't heard it, because he can't hear anything. She can let him leave and it won't have to mean her death. 

Maybe. Maybe. Sometimes the Fates are literal, and sometimes they are not. Is she willing to risk her life for this man's freedom? She squeezes her eyes shut, whispers, "Go, just go," trusts him to be able to read it from her lips even if he cannot hear. 

When she opens her eyes, he's gone. She sits down in the middle of the meadow and wonders how soon death will come to her, if it intends to come at all. 

*

She doesn't know why she goes back to the meadow. She tells herself that it's because it's still a fine place for solitude, that just because one person happened upon her doesn't mean others will. 

She doesn't know why she goes back, and she cannot comprehend why he does. But there he is, standing at the meadow's edge just as before, only this time he's smiling, a question in his eyes rather than surprise. 

He didn't kill her the first time, so she sighs, says, "Oh, very well," and he comes toward her, his smile widening. 

He speaks with his hands, fingers making shapes and patterns through the air that she finds beguiling. She doesn't understand, but it's lovely to watch, and he is skilled at making himself known through gestures and smiles and the lift of his brows. 

He tells her his name, grasping her hand and tracing the letters out on her palm. _Combeferre._ She does the same for him, because it's only fair. He smiles and makes a sign, points to her and makes it again, and she knows he means it to be her name. It looks lovely. She smiles at him. 

*

He teaches her his words, the twist of a hand that means tree, the way he curls his fingers to say flower. She sits cross-legged with him in the grass and echoes them back to him, feeling clumsy and inept, even as he smiles and nods and makes encouraging gestures. 

She leans forward and kisses him. His hands go still between them, then slide up to cup her face. He kisses her back. When she pulls away, he's smiling. 

*

_Will you sing for me?_ he asks her, and for a moment she forgets to breathe. 

It didn't kill her last time, but last time was an accident. Still, she does as he asked. She sings for him, quietly at first, afraid. Then louder, when he doesn't seem inclined to prostrate himself before her as men always do before sirens. He sits quietly at her side, the fingers of one hand against her back, the other laid lightly against her throat. 

When she's finished, he signs, _Beautiful_. 

She smiles and shakes her head. "You can't know that. You can't even hear it." 

_I can feel it,_ he says. And then, again, _Beautiful_. 

She kisses him again, because she can't not. Kisses him desperately, clings to him too hard, until he covers her hands with his and loosens her fingers. She draws away, but he's still smiling, just like before. 

Eventually night grows near, and they must part. _Meet me here again tomorrow?_ Combeferre asks. 

Éponine swallows the thickness in her throat and nods, hoping the Fates will not make a liar of her. _Tomorrow,_ she signs back at him, inexpertly, but it makes him beam. 

*

He comes the next day and she is waiting for him. She is singing, humming a happy little song beneath her breath. He comes out of the trees and into the meadow and his smile is brighter than the sun overhead. 

She smiles back at him, and reaches a hand out, and he comes to her. She's still humming when they kiss, when he laughs breathlessly against her mouth, when they sprawl out together in the grass. He wraps an arm about her shoulders and holds her close, and because he cannot easily see her mouth like that, she uses her free hand to tell him, _I am happy._

_Good_ , he tells her. _Keep singing._

So she does.


	36. Eponine/Cosette/Marius

Cosette was as startled as anyone when she returned home with the pail of water from the well, gasped out a quick, "Sorry," at the look on Madame's face, and something fell out of her mouth and plopped right into the bucket with a splash. 

Madame's face turned from impatient to thunderous. "What was that?" she demanded, and snatched the pail of water from Cosette's hands to plunge a fist inside and grasp about. She came up with her hand closed about something, opened it up to reveal a glittering diamond lying on her palm. 

Madame sucked in a sharp breath and closed her fingers around the gem just as quickly as she'd opened it. "Where did you get this?" she demanded, tucking it into a pocket of her apron. 

"I don't know," Cosette said, wide-eyed, and ended up with her hands full of flowers. 

Madame stared, agape. "Tell me, child," she said sweetly, sweeter than she'd ever talked to Cosette in her life, "Tell me, how did you come by this peculiar ability?" 

Madame's gaze pinned her, as sharp as ever. Her words were sweet, but they masked the usual poison underneath. Haltingly, hands cupped to catch the gems and flowers that spilled from her mouth with every word, she told Madame about the old crone she'd met in the woods, and the simple kindness Cosette had done her. 

* 

"Éponine!" Madame screeched, when Cosette had finished her tale and Madame had snatched the gems away and left Cosette with her hands full of flowers. "Éponine, child, come here, quickly." 

Cosette edged away while she could, while Madame's attention was otherwise occupied. She placed the flowers in her hands into an empty pail and smiled to herself down at the cheerful picture they made, while Madame hissed hurried instructions to Éponine to go out and fetch some water, to linger about the well so long as the light held, and to be sure to be the picture of kindness to any old women she met upon the road. 

"Then that old crone will see what a lovely young woman you are, and how she bestowed her blessing upon the wrong girl," Madame added, tugging to adjust the bow of the bonnet beneath Éponine's chin. 

"I don't think that's quite how it works," Cosette said quietly. She caught the gemstones that fell from her mouth and tucked them away into her pockets while Madame's attention was occupied, thinking happily that she could use them to buy supper on the nights when Madame was in a temper and sent her to bed with an empty stomach. 

"Shut your mouth, girl," Madame snarled back over her shoulder at Cosette, and then went back to giving Éponine her list of instructions and demands. 

* 

Cosette hears the screaming first, and then the sobbing as it gets nearer. And then Éponine bursts through the door, her face red and blotchy with tears, her eyes wild. "You lied, you must have lied, it didn't work at all," she snarled at Cosette, choking and gagging on her words as snakes and lizards and toads fell out of her mouth and scurried across the floor, looking bewildered and alarmed. 

Cosette grabbed a broom and shooed them outside, but before she could return to Éponine Madame had arrived, crouching down in front of her daughter. 

"Well? Speak up, girl!" Madame demanded. "Did you find the old woman?" 

Éponine clapped her hands over her mouth and shook her head, her eyes big and desperate above her fingers. 

"Come on, child! Tell me what's happened!" 

"She lied!" Éponine cried, and a pair of fat snakes fell right into Madame's lap. "It wasn't an old woman at all! She tricked us!" Then she slapped her hands over her face and sobbed into them. 

"I didn't," Cosette started, but Madame rounded on her, and the look in her eyes stopped the words in Cosette's throat. 

"Devil child," Madame snarled, advancing on her. "She's been nothing but a sister to you, and this is how you'd thank her for it? How you'd thank _us_ , when we took you in and cared for you and kept a roof over your head?" 

Cosette shrank back, but Madame stalked forward and snatched her by the arm, shook her violently and then dragged her to the door and shoved her through it. "Go! Be gone with you! You've been a burden enough upon this family, and now what you've done to my poor Éponine… Out, you wretch!" 

Cosette fled, leaving Madame's snarls and Éponine's tears far behind her. 

* 

It wasn't so hard to make her way on her own, not when all she had to do was speak a word or two and she'd have a gem that could pay for a room for the night or a meal for the evening. Still, it wouldn't do to squander the faerie's gift, so she walked where she could, rather than paying for transport, and she kept her rooms small and her meals simple, when she could have had the finest money could buy. 

She was walk along the road from one town to the next when the clatter of a carriage approached from behind. She moved off to the side of the road, where the grasses grew up past her ankles, and waited for it to pass her by. 

Instead, the coach slowed, and then stopped. The shade over the window rolled up and a man leaned out, smiling and freckled and kind. "Lady, where are you going?" 

Cosette couldn't help the laughter his words startled out of her. She wore the same rags she had carried out from Madame's on her back. Even the greatest simpleton could not have mistaken her for nobility. "Forward, monsieur," she answered, keeping her face turned away just enough that she could catch the flowers and gems without him seeing. 

He leaned his elbows on the window's edge and smiled even more broadly at her. "That's where I'm going, too. Will you let me give you a ride? Evening is near, and there isn't another town for miles." 

Cosette hesitated, but the thought of camping on the roadside, of going to sleep cold and hungry, was far less appealing than this man who smiled at her as though he was genuinely pleased to meet her. 

She nodded, and his smile brightened, though she hadn't thought it possible. When his coachman climbed down to swing the door open for her, she clambered on in, and smiled back at him. 

* 

The road was long indeed, and there was only so long Cosette could keep quiet before she started to seem rude, or ungrateful, or naturally mute. When he asked her her name, she signed and answered, "Cosette," in a whisper. She caught the diamond that fell from her lips and hoped he hadn't noticed. 

His brows climbed high, dashing her hopes immediately. "That's a neat trick," he said, and she cringed, bracing for the questions that always came next, the ones about how she could do it, why she could do it, whether she couldn't spare just a gem or two since she could always have more for herself. 

"And I'm Marius," he said. "Why were you walking on the road all alone? Where's your family?" 

Cosette stared at him, so shocked by the way he had changed to a new topic without even acknowledging the gemstones falling from her lips that she almost missed the first half of what he'd said. 

Almost. 

"The crown prince is named Marius," she said on a horrified whisper. 

Marius smiled at her, as bright and earnest as ever. "No one ever calls me by anything but my title. It's so tiresome. I hope you won't." 

Cosette groaned and buried her face in her hands, mortified beyond words. 

* 

Eventually, he coaxed her to speak again. "Well? Haven't you any family?" 

She thought about Madame, who was the closest thing to family she'd ever known. "No, monsieur," she answered. He'd insisted she not call him _your Highness_ , and she had relented, but she couldn't bring herself to call the crown prince by his given name. 

Marius beamed at her. "That makes you a ward of the court, then. You must come back to the capital with me." He frowned suddenly and seemed chagrined. "That is, if you care to. Would you? I would like it very much." 

He was handsome and warm and kind, and not at all like she'd imagined a crown prince to be. And the road was dark and lonely. "Yes," she answered, and offered him the flower that fell from her lips, smiling shyly. 

* 

"Marius," she said, because they'd grown closer in the weeks she'd been at court, grown to be friends, maybe grown to be something more, and it was right for friends to call each other by their given names. "Marius, there's something I'd like to do. Will you help me?" 

"Of course." He had been idly gathering the flowers that fell from her mouth as they conversed, and plaiting them into a braid. Now he secured the end to the beginning to fashion a circlet from the blossoms, and settled it onto her hair with the warm smile she was starting to think of as _hers._ "What would you have of me?" 

"I want to go home," she said, and gripped his hand tight for courage. 

* 

Of course, they heard the carriage clattering down the road toward the house. Of course, they came out to see who it was who'd come to pay them a visit. 

Anger shone bright on Éponine's face when Marius helped Cosette down out of the carriage, but not so bright as the tears that gathered on her lashes but didn't fall. 

Madame curtsied so deep she looked like the slightest breeze would tip her over, but Cosette spared her no attention. "Éponine," she said, and walked up to stand before her. Madame had been right about one thing, Éponine had been as much of a sister to Cosette as anyone else had ever been. "Will you come with us? You may, if you wish." 

Éponine stared at her, anger and hatred and confusion a riot in her eyes. She glanced quickly at Marius and pressed her fingers over her mouth as though to hold back the words she wished to speak. 

"Your sister is already making a place for herself at court," Marius said to Éponine, stepping toward her. "We'd be happy to have you as well." 

Éponine's eyes went large and round. "Sister?" she whispered, turning that look on Cosette. "Why would you tell him I'm your sister?" Something went _ribbit_ in her hands, and her cheeks burned bright pink. She dropped the handful of reptiles to the ground and tried to kick them away with the toe of her shoe. 

Marius's face went bright and eager. "You do it, too? Does it run in the family?" 

"Aren't you?" Cosette said, and stepped toward her. 

"He's already half in love with you," Éponine whispered, sparing a brief glance for Marius. "You get everything, and I get cursed. I hate you. Why would you ask me to come with you? Are you trying to torment me?" 

Cosette thought about Madame and how unkind she'd been. She wondered who Madame would turn to to vent her temper and her frustrations, now that Cosette was gone. She saw the shadows under Éponine's eyes and didn't have to speculate what had put them there. "I don't hate you," she said quietly. "I don't blame you, either. You were a child as much as I was." She reached out and took hold of Éponine's wrist, was more than a little surprised when Éponine didn't pull away from her at once. Cosette drew her hand down and slipped hers into it. "Come with us, Éponine. It's ever so much nicer at court. You could be happy." 

"Like this?" Éponine said with a bitter laugh, and held out the toad and the garter snake that fell from her mouth with the words. 

"How unique," Marius exclaimed, and took the animals from her hands to hold them up at eye level. "Do you know, I love snakes. Always have, ever since I was a boy." 

Éponine frowned at him like she thought he was mocking her. Cosette would tell her, if she could, how Marius is never anything but completely sincere, that he never says anything he doesn't mean and she's never seen him be anything but kind to anyone. She'd tell Éponine how much nicer it is than living with Madame, always wary, always at risk of a harsh word or a heavy hand if something displeased her. 

Cosette knew Éponine's curse displeased Madame greatly. She'd tell her, if she could, that she didn't have to live like this. That Cosette came to offer her escape. 

"Come to court," she said instead, quietly, sincerely. Then she leaned in and kissed her cheek gently, whispered there where no one else can hear, "It cannot possibly be worse than this, can it?" 

* 

Her first few weeks at court, Éponine won't speak at all. Cosette sees the rigid terror in her, the fear that her curse will be discovered and as reviled as it was back home, and she wishes she had some way to make things easier for her. 

They spend time together, the three of them, because they're the only two people at court who know her secret and are therefore safe for her to speak in front of. They sit together in Marius's rooms, or in Cosette's, or in Éponine's, and gather up the gems that fall from Cosette's mouth in one pail, and the reptiles that fall from Éponine's in another, and they can both almost pretend that everything is normal. When Marius smiles at Cosette, it feels like it is, and when he grins at Éponine, she brightens like maybe she feels the same way. 

When the weather is good, she and Éponine help Marius escape the palace and they sneak out into the woods together, where they can walk and speak without care, where the blossoms that fall from Cosette's mouth look like wildflowers upon their path, and the toads and snakes that come from Éponine's are free to hop and slither away into the underbrush. 

They steal food from the kitchens and smuggle it out in their pockets so they can stay out for hours, and they find a log or a clearing or a flat stone on which to sit and eat. Often, Marius's hand finds its way into Cosette's, and she has to bite into her apple to hide her smile. 

Éponine ducks her head and takes a big bite from the rolls they'd stolen, and Cosette thinks that she's doing the same thing to hide her misery. But before Cosette can think of what to do to ease her unhappiness, Marius offers his other hand to Éponine, his palm up, his smile guileless. 

Éponine hesitates, but puts her hand into his after a moment. When Cosette offers her hand as well, Éponine hesitates for longer. 

The first few times, Éponine tucks her free hand into her lap and pretends not to notice the one Cosette is offering to her. Cosette lets it pass, and they finish their meals in easy camaraderie. Slowly, Éponine comes to look less and less like she's expecting it to turn into a cruel trick every time Marius says or does something kind. 

And then the day comes that they're eating, Marius finished with his meal and clasping both their hands, Cosette distracted trying not to make a mess as she finishes her lunch one-handed, when she glances up and sees Éponine's hand extended onto her knee, palm up in a way that could mean nothing at all except for the way that Éponine is taking great pains not to look at Cosette or acknowledge the hand lying between them in any way at all. 

Cosette lays her hand on Éponine's, hardly daring to breathe for fear she's mistaken. Éponine's fingers twitch beneath the light weight of her hand, but she doesn't pull away or glare or do anything but sit there, breathing quicker than the quiet meal would justify. A moment passes, and then another, and Cosette thinks herself immensely satisfied with just this. But then Éponine moves her hand, and Cosette almost snatches hers back before she realizes that Éponine is spreading her fingers, sliding them between Cosette's, clasping her hand firmly. She still won't look at Cosette, won't acknowledge this in any way, and there's a terrified rigidity to the way she's sitting, but there's also the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. 

Cosette squeezes her hand and smiles widely, openly, and finally allows herself to believe that they're going to be all right.


	37. E/R - Cinderella

"What did you do?" Éponine demands, bursting into the room where Grantaire is curled up asleep in front of the hearth. "What did you _do?_ " 

He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and frowning at her. "I'm almost completely certain I didn't do anything. I was very well-behave last night, I promise." He catches her hands and forces her to stop, to be still. "Ép, what's happened?" 

"Happened?" Her laughter borders on hysteria. She crouches down in front of him, the hem of her skirt in the ashes from the fire, and shakes her head wildly. "The _crown prince_ is here, that's what's happened." 

"Why—" 

"And he has your boot!" 

Grantaire snaps his mouth shut and stares at her, horror turning thick in his throat. "No," he says, hoarse. "No, why would he—" 

He has a sudden flash of memory of the night before, of accompanying Éponine and Azelma and the Thenardiers to the palace, of Madame Thenardier's stern instructions that he was there to look out for his sister's only and he wasn't to speak to anyone at the ball lest he embarrass them all. How Éponine and Azelma had both been perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, and Grantaire had been bored and half-drunk on punch and so he'd escaped out from the ballroom to the gardens behind. 

How he'd found another reveler out there seeking refuge, wearing an ornate mask that covered everything above his mouth, though everyone else seemed to have stretched the concept of a masque to its limits and come with only delicate dominos that did nothing at all to hide their identities. 

How they'd sat together and talked long into the night, how Grantaire had pulled off his boots because they pinched and sat with them on one side and the masked man on the other on the broad steps between the ballroom and the gardens, how the clock had struck twelve and Grantaire had sworn and scrambled to his feet and run, because if the Thenardiers decided they were ready to leave and found that Grantaire had abandoned his post over the girls, they'd tan his hide until he couldn't sit for a week. 

How he'd grabbed his boots as he'd gathered himself to run, but then stumbled on the stares and one went spilling out of his arms, and he'd left it behind because the Thenardiers would be more wroth with him over shirking his duty than over a lost shoe, and he'd run in his stocking feet as the masked stranger had called, "Wait!" after him, holding Grantaire's abandoned boot helplessly in one hand. 

"He wasn't the prince," Grantaire whispers, staring at Éponine. "We were out in the gardens all night. The prince would have been missed. The prince would have been _dancing_. Why would he run away from his own masque?" 

"That's an excellent question." Éponine grabs a pail of water from beside the hearth, grabs the rag that's soaking in it and starts scrubbing at Grantaire's face. "You can ask him yourself. He wants to see all the young men of the family." 

"Éponine, stop," he protests, swatting at her hands. "I'm not going to see him. I'm not part of the family." 

"Don't be ridiculous," she says with a sharp sigh and another swipe of the rag over his cheek. "Of course you're going to see him. And I'm not about to let you go out there looking like you've been rolling about in the cinders." 

"Your mother will never let me," he protests feebly as she pulls him to his feet and starts stripping his dirty clothing from him. 

"My mother is not going to have a choice," Éponine says with a sharp smile, and shoves a bundle of clothes into his hands. "Here, they're Gav's. They'll be a narrow fit, but at least they're clean and presentable." 

_Narrow_ fit is an overly generous estimate. Gavroche is years younger than Grantaire, and he likes his clothing loose and comfortable, but even so his trousers are tight on Grantaire, clinging to his thighs and his hips. Éponine grins at him as he twists about, testing whether the seams will even hold. "I can't go out there like this," he protests. 

"Don't be ridiculous, you look a treat. "Your prince won't be able to take his eyes off you." 

"He's not my prince." 

"He won't be if you don't hurry up and _get out there_." She fusses with his hair and the fall of his curls for a moment, then gives up that battle with a wave of her hand and pushes Grantaire toward the stairs leading up to the main floor of the house. "Go! I'm right behind you. I'll make sure Maman doesn't see until it's too late to stop you." 

Grantaire isn't entirely certain he doesn't want to be stopped, but Éponine is a force of nature who cannot be denied. She ushers him up the stairs and to the door to the parlor, pushes him at the door with a final hissed, "Go!", and then hurries off down the hall crying, "Maman! Oh, Maman, it's terrible, you must see what has become of my gown!" 

Grantaire eases the parlor door open, though his heart is pounding and his palms are clammy. And inside— inside is the crown prince, sitting carefully on the edge of Madame Thenardier's armchair. He bolts to his feet as soon as Grantaire comes into the room, and the tense expression on his face melts away to relief. 

"You," he breathes, staring at Grantaire. 

Grantaire comes away from the door uncertainly. The crown prince has the same blond hair that Grantaire's masked man did the night before, the same curls, the same stature. 

_Lots of men have blond curls,_ he thinks wildly, and wonders how badly Éponine will maim him if he flees now. 

Grantaire gropes himself for a chair. His legs are unsteady and threatening to give way beneath him. "You might have told me who you were," he whispers, staring at Enjolras, at his masked man, at his prince. 

Enjolras pulls a face. "We were having such a nice conversation." 

That is definitely the voice of his masked man. Grantaire wants to cry, or laugh, or run back down to the kitchen and the hearth where at least everything's familiar and he never feels like the ground is shifting beneath his very feet. 

"Conversation?" Grantaire echoes, strangled. "I thought we were having an argument. Oh god, I argued with the prince." He flops backwards on the chair and throws an arm over his face, mortified beyond the telling of it. 

"We were arguing," the prince agrees. Impossibly, it sounds like he's _smiling_. Grantaire drops the arm from over his eyes and stares at him. Maybe the prince has gone mad, he thinks. That would explain so very much. "And you would have stopped if I told you who I was." 

"Of _course_ I would have—" 

"No one's argued with me in longer than I can remember." Enjolras pulls an ottoman over near Grantaire's chair and sits on it, looking earnest. "No one dares. As soon as I voice an opinion, everyone's falling all over themselves to agree with me. Last night was…. nice," he says with a smile. 

Grantaire can't look away from him. He sounds so much like the man Grantaire had known the night before, the one who had been so easy to talk to, and yes, to argue with. It _had_ been nice. 

"Why are you here?" he asks on a breath. 

Enjolras shows him his boot with a wry smile. "You left something behind last night." 

"Do you always personally deliver the items people leave behind? Do you have a carriage full of lost reticules and forgotten fans?" 

"No." Enjolras is smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his face so bright and happy. They say so many things about the crown prince, but Grantaire has never heard them say that he's happy. "But this is a very nice boot. It'd be a shame if it never found its way home to its mate." 

Grantaire doesn't know what to say. After a moment, Enjolras's face goes thoughtful. "Then again," he muses, "you _were_ wearing a mask. How can I be truly sure it belongs to you?" 

Grantaire was wearing a mask in name only, a small domino that covered his eyes and nothing more. 

"You'd better try it on, just to be sure." 

"Are you mad?" Grantaire demands. 

Enjolras's smile widens. He shakes his head and scoots forward on the ottoman, close enough that he can lean forward and curve a hand behind Grantaire's calf. He lifts Grantaire's leg up onto his knees and Grantaire drops his head back, laughing hysterically into his hands. 

Enjolras slips his boot on easily, gives it a tug to be sure Grantaire's heel is settled firmly, then looks at Grantaire with his face burning with satisfaction. "A perfect fit." 

Grantaire sits there like an idiot with one shoe on and smiles ridiculously back at the prince, unable to help himself. "Can I—" he starts, then stops himself, frowning. That's so presumptuous, even for him. 

But Enjolras says, "Anything," and then looks at him, waiting. 

Grantaire leans forward, haltingly, giving Enjolras plenty of time to realize his intent and stop him. Enjolras's lips part on a quick breath but he doesn't draw away, doesn't lift a hand up to hold Grantaire back. He doesn't do anything, and when Grantaire's close enough that their lips skim together, he lets out another soft breath and lifts a hand up to curve it around the back of Grantaire's neck. 

His lips part. His tongue sweeps out, and Grantaire is lost. 

He doesn't come back to himself until he's in Enjolras's lap, straddling his hips and grabbing onto him hard, kissing him harder, both of them reduced to breathing in short, heavy gasps. He pulls away and stares down at Enjolras, his lips raw and oversensitive. "I wanted to do that last night," he says breathlessly. 

Heat leaps in Enjolras's gaze. "Why didn't you?" 

"Because." Grantaire traces his fingers over the corner of Enjolras's eye, across his cheek, down the angle of his jaw. "Because, I wanted to be able to see your face when I did." 

"And now?" 

Grantaire smiles down at him, slides his fingers into Enjolras's curls, and pulls him in again. "I like what I see," he says, and covers Enjolras's curving lips with his own.


	38. E/R - Protesilaus and Laodamia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: major character death, suicide

Enjolras is standing in the door and for a long moment, all Grantaire can do is stare at him. "You—" His voice comes out a harsh rasp. He has to wet his lips and clear his throat and try again. "You're home so soon? Did you win the war so easily, then?" 

Enjolras shakes his head and steps into their house. He looks sad, so sad. "I fell," he says quietly. "All my grand plans, and you were right in the end. It was the death of me. You always were right about the things that truly mattered." 

"What—" Grantaire's voice goes hoarse and thin. He stares at Enjolras, trying to reconcile it. How can he be here if he's dead? 

How could he be here otherwise? They'd have scarcely had enough time to reach Troy, much less to secure their victory and sail back home. 

"Don't cry," Enjolras says suddenly, coming forward with quick steps. It's only then that Grantaire notices the tears burning in his eyes, falling from his lashes. Enjolras cups his cheeks and swipes the tears away with his thumbs. He feels so solid, so _real_. He leans down and breathes against Grantaire's mouth, "Please don't. The gods have granted us three hours, because the war took me from you too soon. Grieve when I'm gone, but let's not squander this gift." 

"Three hours?" Grantaire echoes, numb. It hardly feels like a gift. They were supposed to have years and years. 

Enjolras pulls him into an embrace. Grantaire presses in close against him and doesn't complain, even when Enjolras squeezes him a little bit too tight. He could spend every second they've been given right here in Enjolras's arms and it still wouldn't be enough. 

* 

Three hours pass in a moment. Grantaire doesn't dare track the time, he doesn't want to know when this will all come to an end. But Enjolras seems to know instinctively. His expression grows more and more troubled as the hour nears. 

"I don't want to leave you like this," he says, brushing fingers along Grantaire's jaw. 

"Don't." Grantaire presses in tight against him, his head tucked under Enjolras's chin, his arms wrapping tight around his back. "Don't leave me." 

Enjolras sighs and strokes his hair. "You know I wouldn't, if it were at all in my power." 

That's a lie, Grantaire thinks. Enjolras left him for this war in the first place. 

He can't bear to look, when the time comes. He doesn't want to see what happens, whether Enjolras vanishes in a moment or fades away, whether the gods come to escort him or if he'll walk away from Grantaire under his own power. 

Enjolras lays a hand on his back. "I love you," he says softly, and then the weight and the warmth of him is gone, and Grantaire crumples to the floor. 

* 

Everyone tells him will get easier, but every day is harder than the last. He moves through them in a haze. Every beat of his heart carries with it the reminder that Enjolras is dead. He's gone. Someday, maybe some day soon, men will be coming back from war but Enjolras won't be coming with them. 

He toys with his knife sometimes, in the quiet moments when Enjolras's absence is most unbearable. He presses the point to his palm and digs it in until a bead of blood wells up around the tip, until his nerves give out and he relents, pressing a cloth to the wound and hating his weakness. 

The days pass, each one growing longer than the last. Grantaire's grief grows with it. Each time, he presses the point of the knife a little deeper before he falters. Each time, the pain is just a little bit less terrifying, just a little bit more of a relief. 

Word comes one day from Troy, carrying news of an entrenched battle and the names of the dead. Enjolras is high on the list. Grantaire stays just long enough to hear his name before he flees, crumples in the corner and presses the knife against his wrist until the blade cuts deep, the blood flows freely, and the pain flows out with it. 

All he wants is for this agony to end. 

* 

He doesn't remember dying. He doesn't remember paying Charon or crossing the Styx. He's dead and he still moves in a daze, until suddenly Enjolras is standing before him and Grantaire comes to sharp attention. 

"What did you do?" Grantaire is nothing but relieved to see him, but Enjolras looks furious. "Grantaire, _what did you do?_ " 

"Ended it," he says bitterly, and reaches for him. Enjolras stiffens and pulls back. "I missed you." 

"This isn't what I wanted." Enjolras's voice is harsh, rough. "You _threw your life away._ " 

"Enjolras," Grantaire says, pleading with him. "Enjolras, I couldn't… You were dead and I couldn't live without you." He reaches out for Enjolras again, tentative this time. "Now we can be together." 

"You could have waited." Enjolras's voice shakes. His hands tremble. He still doesn't come into Grantaire's arms like Grantaire wants him to. "You could have lived your life and died when the Fates decreed, and _then_ we could have been together." His voice breaks. "I'd have waited for you. I didn't want this, not like this." 

"I couldn't bear it. It hurt too much." 

Something flickers on Enjolras's face that might as easily be scorn as pity. "Bad enough I died. I didn't want you dead, too. You could have lived out your life, Grantaire. The pain would have eased eventually. You could have _lived_." 

"Enjolras, I love you," Grantaire says, broken. 

"I love you, too," he answers quietly, pulling away. "But how could you think this would make me happy?" 

* 

Life in Hades is almost as bad as life up above had been. Grantaire still hurts, still carries the shattered pieces of his heart around in his chest. He still has to find some way to live without Enjolras, because Enjolras is alive here, but he still looks at Grantaire as though Grantaire has been some terrible source of disappointment to him. They feel as distant as ever, and the only consolation Grantaire has is that at least he can _see_ him, even if Enjolras shuts his eyes with a pained grimace or turns away from him more often than not. At least Grantaire can look on his face and know that he lives. 

But it is so terribly lonely. "You had your chance to grieve," Enjolras snaps one day, when Grantaire has pushed too hard. "Can't you give me mine?" 

Grantaire retreats, gives him space, and feels the chasm in his chest opening up again, as raw and painful as it ever was up above. 

He finds himself on his knees at the banks of the Lethe, tears dripping down his cheeks and into the waters before him. Dying was supposed to stop the pain, but everything hurts worse than it did before. Enjolras won't have him, and what other purpose does he have in being here? 

The water flows by before him, promising cool oblivion. The tears fall harder, turn to sobs even as he bends forward to scoop the water in his palms. He lifts his hands to his mouth and drinks. 

* 

Enjolras's heart seizes when he comes upon Grantaire kneeling at the edge of the Lethe. "Grantaire." He comes up beside him and crouches down next to him, reaches to take his hands. "Don't do this. Don't. Just give me time. A man's entitled to some time to accept the death of the man he loves, isn't he?" 

Grantaire turns his head and looks at him. He doesn't look angry, so Enjolras's first thought is relief. Nor does he look as grief-stricken as he has been since arriving here in the underworld, and that's a relief, too. 

He doesn't look anything, Enjolras realizes, and all that pain and fear comes crashing back. "No," he breathes. "You didn't. Grantaire, tell me you didn't!" 

Grantaire's hands are wet. His mouth is wet. He looks at Enjolras like he's never seen him before. "Who's Grantaire?" he asks, bewildered. 

Enjolras pulls away from him. His hands shake and his eyes burn. He staggers a short distance away and sits down in the mud of the bank, buries his face in his hands and weeps to have lost Grantaire all over again. 

* 

Grantaire is gone not long after that, reincarnated now that the waters of the Lethe have washed his soul clean of his old life, and prepared him for his next. Enjolras sits on the bank of the Lethe and thinks about following him, thinks about the promise of forgetting that the Lethe offers, so close at hand. 

He thinks about never seeing Grantaire again, thinks about never again knowing what Grantaire meant to him, and he doesn't drink. 

He understands Grantaire a bit better, now. He knows what Grantaire meant when he said the pain was too great to bear. But at least Grantaire had known that Enjolras would be waiting for him at the end of his life. What does Enjolras have no? He has no comfort, no solace. He has only the pain of knowing the man he loves exists no longer, washed clean by the waters of the Lethe. He is someone else now, living someone else's life. 

If Enjolras wants comfort or solace, he is going to have to make it himself. 

* 

Enjolras presents himself before Hades. "Forgive me, my Lord," he says, head bowed, "but I have grown tired of your realm. I am ready to be reincarnated." 

"You must drink of the Lethe," Hades tells him, "and forget who you used to be." 

Enjolras nods and shows Hades the chalice he has brought, full to the brim. "I am ready," he says, and he drinks it all, every drop. 

When he's finished, he lets the chalice fall to the ground. Hades eyes him cannily. "What is your name?" Hades asks him. 

Enjolras knows his myths. He knows the rivers of Hades, as all Greeks do. Styx, the river of hate. Akheron, the river of sorrow. Kokytos, the river of lamentation. Phlegethon, the river of fire. Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. 

He knows of a sixth, which is less well-known. Mnemosyne, the river of remembering. 

Enjolras remembers his name. He remembers everything. But only those who've drunk from the Lethe may be reincarnated, so he wipes the waters of the Mnemosyne from his lips says, "Forgive me, my Lord, but I do not know it." 

Hades looks pleased. He beckons Enjolras forward and ushers him off. 

He will be reincarnated, and he will remember. He'll find Grantaire. If it takes him his whole life, if it takes him a hundred lifetimes, he will find him. They'll learn each other anew, and this time, nothing will keep them apart.


	39. E/R - Dracula

The crypt is empty when Grantaire sneaks inside, the lid of the coffin ever so slightly askew. He brought a lamp with him, and a book, and he settles down on the hard floor to read, and to wait. 

He doesn't have to wait long. It's less than an hour before the crypt door creaks open and a shadowed form freezes in the doorway. 

Grantaire lowers his book and stretches his legs out. "You can't keep doing this." 

Enjolras comes forward. "You shouldn't be here." 

He looks just as beautiful as he did when he was alive. It's a different kind of beauty, death has changed it, but it hasn't diminished it at all. "You're feeding from _children_ , Enjolras. You can't believe that's going to end well." 

Enjolras's expression twists. "Only the ones who agree. Only the ones who are willing. And even then, only a very little. A few sips from each. It doesn't harm them." 

"They're _children_ ," Grantaire says, rising to his feet. "How much do you think their parents care that they offered themselves up willingly? They're already making plans. They're going to hunt you down, and they're going to kill you. You have to stop." 

"And then I'll die all the same, only slower, and starving. Is that what you'd have me do?" Enjolras's expression is fearsome, but beneath that, it's frustrated. "I didn't choose this. But I'm not the sort to lie down and die, now that it's been done to me. I am being as careful as I can be." 

"You're not being careful enough. They know you've risen. They see the marks on their children and it frightens them." Grantaire comes closer, only a stride's length between them. "I'm not asking you to starve. I'm asking you to stop giving them a reason to be afraid." His tie is already loose, his collar open. He pulls it down and turns his head aside to bare his neck. "Children are not the only option, if you want someone willing." 

Enjolras is very quiet for a moment, very still. When he moves, it's to step forward cautiously, as though he thinks Grantaire is a rabbit who will bolt at the slightest provocation. Grantaire could laugh. Enjolras still hasn't figured it out yet: nothing could keep him away. 

Enjolras lays his fingers low on Grantaire's neck. He leans in and Grantaire doesn't tense, doesn't brace. He's not afraid. 

Enjolras just breathes against his skin for a moment. "You'll have to be careful with your collars." 

Grantaire has to wet his lips before he can manage to speak. "I'll be the very picture of modern fashion sensibilities. Everyone will be quite shocked." 

Enjolras fits a hand to Grantaire's waist and spreads the other against his back, pulling him in even as he presses his lips to Grantaire's neck. But still, he hesitates. "You don't fear me?" he asks, hushed, nervous. 

Grantaire lets out a breathy laugh. "You already died once, Enjolras. The only thing I fear is losing you again." He shuts his eyes and presses in against Enjolras's mouth. "Please, take this from me. Be safe. Live." 

"I will," he says quietly, spoken like a promise, and then he bites.


	40. E/R - Orpheus and Eurydice 2

Grantaire loves these small, intimate gatherings. These days he's more likely to perform to a crowd of tens of thousands than a few dozen, but he likes to do them when he can, when he's home. It reminds him of the days when he was just starting out and he'd have called a hundred people crowded into a club to listen to him perform an unimaginable success, rather than _small and intimate_. They remind him where he came from, and why he does this. 

Floréal says they keep him humble, and she's probably not wrong about that, either. As humble as he can be these days, anyway. 

He keeps the smaller gigs to his hometown, because the cost of a hundred tickets isn't even enough to pay for the airfare for everyone who'd need to accompany him to put on a show, and because he likes to give back to the people and the city that helped him get his start. 

His fans seem to like it, too. The tickets for these gigs usually sell out about a half a second after they go on sale. 

It's the reason he notices the man, the man in the second row in possession of a seat that half of Grantaire's fans would have sold their left kidney to be able to occupy, but who seems far more interested what's happening on the screen of his smartphone than the performance Grantaire is giving. 

It's the only reason he notices, Grantaire tells himself. It's not because the man looks like a modern day Adonis, and it's _definitely_ not because of stung pride. 

Grantaire waits until he finishes the set and then moves through the crowd, mingling with his fans, giving them a chance to have a normal human conversation with him in the way that they couldn't at one of his larger gigs, in a sold-out stadium of ten thousand. 

He wanders through the crowd until he naturally ends up in front of the man in question, still scowling ferociously at his phone as he types something out, fingers flying over the screen. 

"I think I owe you a refund," Grantaire says, putting on his most charming smile. 

The man glances up and blinks at him. "Sorry?" 

"You're not getting your money's worth." Grantaire reaches out and taps the screen of the man's phone with one finger. "Not if that's more entertaining than I am." 

" _Enjolras,_ for God's sake," someone hisses beside the man, pulling on his arm and looking mortified. "Have you no manners at all?" 

Enjolras slips the phone into his pocket, but he doesn't look the least bit chagrined to have been caught out. "Sorry," he says, and doesn't sound like he means it. "Something came out up at work. Fires to put out. I'm sure you know how it is." His expression says that he's not sure of that at all. 

Enjolras's friend buries his face in his hands. "OhmygodI'msosorry." 

"Anyway," Enjolras continues. "It's not my ticket, it's his boyfriend's." He gestures to his friend, who looks like he wants to sink down through the floor and disappear. Or maybe just wants Enjolras to. "But he came down with the flu two days ago and made me promise to take him instead. Because apparently Bossuet isn't a grown man capable of going out and doing things by himself." 

"Shut _up_ ," the friend — Bossuet — insists, swatting at Enjolras's arm. Even in the dim lights, Grantaire an tell that his cheeks are burning red. He makes a mental note to send Joly a backstage pass to his next big local event, to make up for his friend. 

Grantaire can see his stage manager, Éponine, making a pointed gesture at her watch, which means it must be time for his next set. He gives her a nod and turns back to Enjolras, turns his smile up bright. "Duty calls. I'll try harder to hold your attention with this next set." 

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. Grantaire just saunters off and takes his place up in front again. The set list he came up with for this gig calls for an upbeat, raucous song next, to keep the energy of the crowd going, but he pulls a stool up to the mic instead, waves off Éponine's frantic gestures to get him to come over and explain to her what the hell he's doing, and starts instead on the ballad from his latest album. 

It's a long song for polar opposites, and there's been a lot of media speculation about what girl (or guy — Grantaire has never been anything but open about his sexuality, and some of the media outlets actually manage to remember that) he wrote the song for, but the truth is that it's for Floréal and her unlikely, straight-laced boyfriend. Grantaire started writing it as a parody one night just to make them laugh, but then it turned into something sincere when he wasn't paying attention, and suddenly it's been in the Top 40 for weeks and has kind of taken on a life of its own. 

Usually he sings this song to Floréal, _for_ Floréal, but today he sings it straight to Enjolras, and watches as he turns from exasperated to chagrined to the most endearing shade of pink. His friend beside him looks like he's going to have an apoplexy of excitement over it all. 

Grantaire doesn't seek Enjolras out during the next breaks — he _is_ capable of being professional, and there are people here who did actually pay money for a chance to be able to talk with him. And Enjolras doesn't seem inclined to push through the crowd to find him, so Grantaire turns his attention back to his job, and his fans. 

The performance ends late, because Grantaire is a sucker for enthusiasm and lets himself get called out for an encore twice. There's still work to be done once everyone has left, though, breaking down the equipment and packing it up. And Grantaire has people to do that for him now, but he's not an asshole, so while they get started he ducks out to the café around the corner to get coffees for everyone. 

He's tired enough that he doesn't realize until he's taken his place in the line that he's standing right behind Enjolras and Bossuet. Enjolras has his nose buried in his phone again, so it's Bossuet who notices him, breaking off mid-sentence with a squeak and a tight hand on Enjolras's arm. 

Enjolras looks up, frowning. His frown only deepens when he follows Bossuet's gaze and sees Grantaire. "Are you following me?" he demands in a sharp tone. 

Grantaire holds his hands up, palms out. "Pure coincidence, I swear." 

Enjolras looks dubious, and Grantaire has a moment of inspiration. "Look," he says, "I didn't mean to put you on the spot back there. Let me buy your drinks to make up for it." 

"That's really not necessary," Enjolras says, even as Bossuet smacks his shoulder and hisses, "Shut _up_ , Enjolras, oh my god." 

The line shuffles forward and Enjolras and Bossuet are next, so Grantaire steps past them to rattle off the crew's orders to the barista, then gestures over his shoulder to the other two. "And whatever they're having, too." 

She nods and smiles and gives Enjolras and Bossuet expectant looks, and Enjolras caves, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 

Once they've placed their orders, there's really nothing to do but go over to the other end of the bar and wait together for their drinks to be ready. Bossuet keeps staring at Grantaire with wide eyes and going, "Thank you, oh my god, Joly will never believe me, thank you," until Grantaire can't help but laugh. 

"Hey, so I was thinking," Grantaire says when they've all got their drinks. "Do you guys want to come back? I could introduce you to the crew if you wanted." His crew is fabulous and at least half the reason he's as successful as he is today, and they don't get anywhere near enough of the credit. But Bossuet seems like the sort to appreciate the introduction, and Grantaire still feels like he maybe owes him an apology for antagonizing his friend. 

Enjolras takes one look at Bossuet's brightening face and doesn't even make a token protest, just sighs and takes a sip of his coffee with a resigned sigh. "Lead the way," he says, and Bossuet throws an arm around his shoulder and declares him the best friend ever. 

The crew is exhausted, but Grantaire gives Bossuet the trays of coffee and lets him pass them out, and they smile at him gratefully and let him help with their work and seem to appreciate his company. 

Grantaire hangs back with Enjolras, letting Bossuet have his moment. He's halfway through his coffee when Enjolras gives him a sidelong glance and says, "Thank you for this. For him," warmer than Grantaire's heard him yet. 

Grantaire smiles. "Despite what Éponine would tell you, I do remember that it's my fans who keep me in business. I care about making sure they have a good time." 

"I'm starting to get that," Enjolras says quietly, and actually smiles at him. 

_Oh hell,_ Grantaire thinks and feels himself tip right over into infatuation. 

" _Did_ you follow us, really?" Enjolras asks a few moments later, when Grantaire is trying to figure out how much Floréal's going to laugh at him when he tells her he's crushing on the one guy in the audience who doesn't care about him. 

"I really didn't," Grantaire says. And because Enjolras is looking softer, more friendly, more receptive, he tries flirting again, giving Enjolras that same broad smile and a wink. "Don't be disappointed. I would if you asked me to." 

Enjolras hums noncommittally and sips from his cup. "How far?" 

He's quiet and subtle about it and his gaze is still aimed straight ahead at Bossuet and the crew, so it takes Grantaire a moment to realize that Enjolras is _flirting back_. He laughs, delighted and relieved, and slings an arm around Enjolras's shoulders to press an extravagant kiss to his cheek. "To hell and back, I think," Grantaire says, and it's just supposed to be flirting, but it already feels more sincere than it probably should be. 

* 

"To hell and back," Enjolras says two years later, beaming at him as they stand before the altar, and it's all Grantaire can do to wait long enough for the officiant to pronounce them married before he sweeps Enjolras up in his arms and kisses him thoroughly.


	41. E/R - Achilles and Patroclus

Grantaire first meets him when they're both boys, each standing at their fathers' sides. Enjolras is a prince, and looks like it, standing tall and fierce and disdainful as Grantaire's father begs his for refuge, for sanctuary. 

Grantaire is an exile and feels it, ragged, grieving for the dual loss of his friend and his homeland. 

When Grantaire's father has finished pleading their case, Enjolras's looks to him, expectant. Enjolras considers them both for a moment then inclines his head, the barest of nods. 

It's enough. 

* 

They're boys together. They play, they wrestle, they fight. Enjolras is younger but he fights like a devil and half the time gets Grantaire pinned to his back with a move too quick or Grantaire to even counter. 

It takes Grantaire by surprise when he finds himself on his back in the grass one day, Enjolras over him, his hands on Grantaire's shoulders to keep him pinned, his face bright with victory, and Grantaire rears up and kisses him. 

Enjolras freezes above him, then sits upright. "Why did you do that?" 

"I wanted to," Grantaire says. He can't read Enjolras's expression. "Should I apologize?" 

Enjolras takes a moment to think about it, then shakes his head. His lips curve in a sly smile and he leans down again. 

* 

Grantaire is seventeen when he's cornered by a man who looks at him with bright eyes and strokes his hair and called him "beloved". He has blond hair, though not quite so bright as Enjolras's, and eyes that are somewhat more grey than blue, though that can be overlooked. He's not unkind, and Grantaire knows this is the way of things, so he answers with a smile that's only a little stiff, and allows the man to drop his hand to Grantaire's hip. 

* 

"Is it the gifts?" Enjolras demands, slamming his weight down onto Grantaire's shoulders. They were play wrestling, but the play's been forgotten. His face is livid, burning. "Is that why you let him touch you?" 

"I don't care about the gifts." Grantaire sighs, but doesn't move to dislodge him. Enjolras is brilliant above him. Jealousy looks good on him. "You know why." 

"You don't love him," Enjolras snarls down at him, his fingers closing on Grantaire's arms. 

"Of course not." 

They are boys no longer, but growing into men, their bodies waking with a man's needs. Grantaire grabs Enjolras's hips with the same tight grip that he has on Grantaire's shoulders, rolls Enjolras off of him so they are both sprawled in the grass beside one another, gripping tight. They push their bodies against each other, gasp against one another's mouths, close their teeth on skin to swallow their sounds. 

It's not the same thing. Grantaire whispers it against his ear as they move together, bodies trembling against one another. It's not the same at all, but he isn't sure if Enjolras believes him. 

* 

Enjolras stands beside Grantaire before the king, the picture of stiff propriety, as he informs them that he's sending them both to study with Chiron, foremost among the centaurs, to augment their studies. It's a great honor to be accepted as Chiron's student, the king says. They'll leave immediately. 

"Did you do this?" Grantaire asks Enjolras when they're miles into their journey, surrounded by nothing but rolling fields and orchards. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Enjolras says, but later, when they've made camp for the night and clasp each other close against the chill, his lips curve in a secret smile against Grantaire's hair. 

* 

Grantaire is twenty, and they're both growing fast under Chiron's tutelage. Enjolras is as brilliant and golden as ever, just as sharp and as sly. And Grantaire is a full-grown man now, with all the rights and responsibilities that come with it. 

He clasps Enjolras close and kisses him, he pushes him down and stretches out atop him. When he breathes, "Beloved," against Enjolras's ear, Enjolras shivers beneath him and grabs onto him with tight fingers, answers, _"Yes,"_ with the same fervor and passion that is a constant blaze within him. He's eager when he makes room for Grantaire between his thighs. 

* 

War comes, and they are both needed for it. Enjolras has grown into the greatest warrior that Grantaire has ever seen, perhaps that Greece itself has ever seen. The war needs him, and so he goes, and because he goes, so does Grantaire. 

It's not a quick skirmish. They fight, and fight, and fight. They wage battle at one another's side, and lean against each other to limp back to their encampment and tend each other's wounds, and drag themselves up to go out and fight again the next day. 

The days come one after another, unending, until they are like grains of sand on a beach. Enjolras is twenty-one, is twenty-three, is twenty-five and a man in his own right, and still he slips into Grantaire's tent every night and tusk himself into Grantaire's arms. 

"You will take a lover of your own," Grantaire says sadly, in the middle of a sleepless night. It's the way of things. He always knew the day was coming. 

Enjolras pushes up and glares down at him. "No." 

"You're too old for this." Grantaire traces the lines of his face, the harsh set to his mouth. "People will talk." 

"Let them say what they like. What will they do? Exile me from battle? I'll take all my men, and my father's, along with me. They'd never risk it." He lowers himself slowly, his weight pressing into Grantaire, making him feel grounded. _"I'm yours,"_ he says, fierce and glorious, and Grantaire wraps him tight in his arms. 

They're at war, and the gods make no promises what the next day will bring, or the one after it. But Enjolras is his, and Grantaire is, and always has been, Enjolras's. 

Grantaire clasps him close and thinks, _It's enough,_ and finally, at last can sleep.


	42. E/R - Centaurs

Enjolras loves his students, he really does. But he maybe loves them a little less on days like today, when they've decided to hold an impromptu archery contest and gotten so carried away congratulating the victor that they've left the forest littered with Enjolras's bows and arrows. 

He's gathered the bows up and returned them to their proper places, but the arrows are less easy to locate. He picks his way out through the forest, careful of where he places his hooves lest he step on on and break it, and finds most of them buried in the oak the students were using for their target. 

A few fell short, and some went wide, but in a few moments he has most of them gathered up, all accounted for but one. And there's a notch in the tree where it clearly found its target, but no arrow to fill that notch, or lying down about the trees roots where it would have landed if it had fallen out. 

He hunts for a few more moments, growing more irritated with his students and their irresponsibility by the moment, until he hears a quiet giggle from somewhere nearby. 

"Who's there?" Enjolras steps toward the sound. He stomps a rear hoof. It's a sign of agitation and his students know him well enough not to push him beyond that point. He expects it to send whichever student is hiding from him scampering out, cowed and penitent. 

He's answered by only silence and the rustle of the undergrowth. 

Enjolras follows the sounds, light little scratchings like a small animal scampering through the undergrowth, growing more irritated with every step, until he comes around a tree and comes face-to-face with a man he's quite sure wasn't there when Enjolras was on the other side of it. 

The man's mouth pulls and twists into a disappointed expression. "You're not making this any fun." 

Enjolras pulls himself up straight, towering over the man. "I beg your pardon?" 

He sighs heavily and leans his shoulder against the tree. "Usually people are more fun. They don't just stomp after me all scowling and silent." 

It's only then that Enjolras notices what the man has in his hands — an arrow, and definitely Enjolras's missing one, there's no one else around who uses the same style of fletching. "Give me that," he snaps, and lashes out for it. 

The man pulls it away, too quick for Enjolras to catch. "Well, that's a step in the right direction, anyway." 

"That's mine. You stole it from me." 

All the teasing light in the man's expression vanishes, leaving him very, very serious. "You shot it into _my tree._ " 

It's only then that Enjolras takes a better look at him and realizes he was wrong. He's not a human man, not with his bare feet and that fey look about him. Dryad, undoubtedly, given the oak leaves and twigs woven through his hair like a coronet. 

_His_ tree indeed. Enjolras deflates some. "My students—" 

"Are your responsibility, are they not?" 

Enjolras's shoulders sag. "Yes," he says, though the students are new, and it chafes to be held responsible for those who will not heed him. "I am sorry for the damage done to your tree. It won't happen again, I swear it." 

The dryad looks him over as though somehow assessing the sincerity of his apology. Abruptly, the seriousness leaves him just as quick as it came over him, leaves him with a crooked smile and light in his eyes. "Well," he says. "You aren't the one who fired the arrows, after all. Do you always make other people's apologies for them? I'd rather hear it from your students than from you." 

He's just baiting Enjolras, as he had before when he led him on the chase in the first place. Enjolras tells himself that, to keep him from snapping something that will probably make him owe the dryad an apology in his own right. He flicks his tail and stomps a hoof to vent his frustration, and then nods. "I'll see it's done." 

The dryad's smile flashes. "Good. All you need to do is speak my name in these woods and I'll hear it. Call to me when they're ready." 

"I don't know your name," Enjolras says, dry, bemused despite himself. 

The dryad's smile spreads. "I'm called Grantaire," he says, and then flits away and is gone. 

* 

He has the students doing chores and unpleasant tasks for two days, and when they are suitably penitent and he thinks they've earned their pardon, he gathers them together at the edge of the forest and instructs them to apologize before he calls Grantaire's name. 

Grantaire steps out from behind a tree as though he was just waiting to be summoned. He comes forward and looks the students over sternly, but Enjolras can see the way he's fighting a smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You're the ones who defiled my tree?" 

The students huddle closer together, shooting him fleeting, intimidated looks. Grantaire glances at Enjolras and says, "A word with them in private, if you will." 

It's the least he can do. Enjolras inclines his head in acknowledgment and moves a short distance away, far enough that he can't overhear what's being said. 

He watches curiously as the students speak and Grantaire listens to them with a grave expression. As Grantaire crouches down and gathers the students in around him, their heads bowed in as though in conspiracy. When they part, the students look somehow both relieved and trepidatious. They return to Enjolras as a huddled mass and send him quick, darting glances that fly away as soon as Enjolras notices them. 

"Well?" he asks. "Have you earned your forgiveness?" 

"Not...exactly," one of his students says, shifting awkwardly. The dart glances at each other and nudge one another's shoulders with intent looks until finally another one of them steps forward. He squares his shoulders and draws a breath as though he's about to give an oration. "He says we'll be forgiven if we convince you to let him call upon and court you." 

Enjolras startles, his gaze flying out to where Grantaire is still waiting at the edge of the trees, arms folded, one brow lifted in inquiry as though to say, _Well? You're not going to make them suffer their guilt forever, are you?_

Enjolras lets out a sharp breath. Irritation flares, automatic, but he tamps it down and considers Grantaire again. He hasn't even made a decision, but there must be something on his face that gives him away, because Grantaire abruptly grins. 

"Come over here and ask me yourself," Enjolras calls to him, and his students cover their mouths and giggle to one another, but it doesn't matter because Grantaire beams and starts toward him.


	43. E/R - Mermaid girlfriends

Grantaire finds Enjolras where she always finds her, up at the surface and close to shore, watching the ships steam in and out of port. The air here is sharp and bitter with smoke. "Come home," Grantaire says. "What's to be gained here?" 

"They're all _blind_ ," Enjolras snarls, thrashing her tail hard enough to send up a plume of water. "They're ruining it for all of us, and for themselves, and they don't even see. They could be so much better." 

Grantaire hums and hooks her arms through Enjolras's, pulling her back, away from the people. She doesn't argue because in this, at least, they agree. 

People _could_ be better, it's true. They could hardly be worse, and that leaves them with much room for improvement. 

It's the next part of the thought where their opinions differ, because Enjolras thinks that they _will_ , thinks that it's possible for them to make them care. Grantaire doesn't think that's ever likely to happen. 

Enjolras relents and swims with her eventually, her expression twisted with frustration. "The stories," she says, and Grantaire swims just a little bit harder, pushes herself just a little bit faster. 

Grantaire knows. She grew up on the stories same as Enjolras. About generations ago, when the people harnessed wind rather than steam, when their ships glided across the water like porpoises rather than belching out black, poisonous smoke behind themselves. When merfolk swam at the sides of ships, singing to the sailors above. When they rushed to warn the men of storms, or shoals, or rough seas. 

Enjolras thinks they can make the stories true again. She thinks Grantaire has forgotten them. But Grantaire remembers, same as anyone. She remembers and it hurts, because she knows they'll never see those days again. Men don't even believe in them anymore. 

"We'll make them see," Enjolras says, as fierce as the midday sun as they swim into the empty, open ocean. "We have to. We'll make them understand." 

Grantaire doesn't think it's possible, not in their lifetime. But Grantaire's brilliant like this, her scales gleaming beneath the sun, her hair a golden pennant flying behind her, her eyes bright and her face set with determination. And Grantaire doesn't think people will ever listen to them -- they don't even listen to each other, half the time -- but she believes with all her heart that if there's anyone at all who can make them do so, it's Enjolras. 

She twines around Enjolras as they swim, scales and skin slipping against each other to show her pride and her faith and her love, until Enjolras slips a hand into hers and pulls her to swim at her side. 

"You have a plan," Grantaire says. 

Enjolras nods, smiling and determined. 

"Tell me, then," Grantaire says, "and we'll figure out how to make it even better." 

Grantaire doesn't think it's ever going to happen. But if Enjolras is going to try, then Grantaire's damned sure going to do everything in her power to help her odds of succeeding. The only thing she really wants in the world is for Enjolras to prove her wrong.


	44. E/R - Tristan and Isolde

They have supper together every night, squeezed close into Enjolras's cabin, which is bigger than Grantaire's by right of his station, but not by much. They eat together and they converse and Grantaire smiles and drinks too much of their wine to drown the fact that he's meant to escort Enjolras across the seas to his intended but every day that they're together Grantaire is falling more and more in love with him. 

He doesn't notice anything amiss, until one night after they've eaten and emptied the wine bottle between them and Grantaire has retired to his cabin to spend another night cursing himself as a fool, when there's an unexpected knock at the door. 

He answers it, expecting the ship's captain or one of the crew, expecting just about anyone but Enjolras, who's glassy-eyed and pink-cheeked and stumbles as the ship goes over a swell, falling forward into Grantaire's arms. 

Grantaire's heart lurches in his chest at the feel of Enjolras close against him, clinging to him. His skin is flushed hot and it takes all Grantaire's strength to set him on his feet and let him go. He looks Enjolras over with a frown. "Did you keep drinking after I left?" 

Enjolras shakes his head, his eyes wide and wild. "I think," he says very carefully, and holds up a small, empty bottle between them, "we have a problem." 

Grantaire lets him in. He's never done that before, always made sure that if they were together alone it was in Enjolras's cabin, not his, because he doesn't think his heart can take having Enjolras here with him and wanting him but never being able to have him. But something's wrong, so Grantaire ushers Enjolras in and guides him over to the bed, has him sit down on its edge while Grantaire crouches before him, the empty bottle between them. He takes it from Enjolras's hands carefully. "What is this?" 

"It's a potion. I brought it with me from home. It was meant for my wedding night." Enjolras's throat works. He reaches out and catches Grantaire's wrists, then just holds them, his thumbs pressing into Grantaire's pulse points. "I didn't open it, but it was full yesterday." 

Grantaire thinks about the wine they shared tonight, about the faint sour note that he'd thought meant the wine was turning, and he'd drunk it anyway because even terrible wine was better than facing dinner with Enjolras sober. He thinks about the flush on Enjolras's cheeks when he opened the door, the heat of his skin, the way even now he's holding on to Grantaire like he can't bear to let him go, when he's been nothing more than friendly to Grantaire until now. 

Grantaire shuts his eyes and takes just a moment to lean his head into his hands. "It's a love potion," he says, because of course it is. What else would it be? 

"I was reluctant to wed a stranger," Enjolras says, hoarse. "I was told it would help." 

"And now?" Grantaire forces his eyes open, forces himself to look at Enjolras, to _see_ him. "Now you fancy yourself in love with me?" 

Enjolras makes a small, wounded noise and slides forward off the edge of the bed, dropping down to his knees on the floor with Grantaire, too close, too warm. "I want," he says, and releases Grantaire's wrists to spread a hand over his chest, to slide it up to his throat and around to the back of his neck, pulling Grantaire in and himself up so they're pressed together from knees to chest. 

Enjolras turns his face in against Grantaire's throat, breathes there like he's wearing the finest perfumes, and Grantaire has to throw a hand out to grab on to the nearest piece of furniture to keep him steady, keep him upright. "You smell good," Enjolras says, wondering. 

Grantaire gives a short, humorless laugh. "I smell like sweat and the sea." 

"Good," Enjolras agrees, and seals his mouth on Grantaire's throat. 

Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut and grabs on to Enjolras with a tight grip. He is going to go straight to Hell. "Enjolras," he says, choked. "This isn't you. It's just the potion talking." 

Enjolras hums against his skin and sucks hard enough to leave a mark. When he lifts his head, he frowns at Grantaire. "Why aren't you burning up like I am?" 

Grantaire's smile is twisted and rueful. "I am, I promise you. I've just had longer to practice hiding it." 

It takes a moment for Enjolras to work through that statement, his brows furrowing, a little line gathering between them. "We drank the wine together," he says. 

Grantaire's smile turns painful, sad. He strokes a hand over Enjolras's hair and wishes he didn't love the way Enjolras turned his face into the caress, so that Grantaire ends with Enjolras's cheek cupped in his palm. "No potion can create an imitation where the real thing already exists." 

It takes longer for Enjolras to sort through his meaning, this time. Grantaire's watching him and he sees the moment when he does, his eyes going wide, his mouth falling open. "You love me," he breathes like it's some wonderful revelation. "You _love me._ " 

"And you're promised to another," Grantaire reminds him quietly. 

"I'll refuse him. I'll chose you. _Grantaire._ " 

He squeezes his eyes shut and holds on to Enjolras tight. This is so much worse. Wanting Enjolras and loving Enjolras and knowing he didn't feel the same was bad enough. But wanting and loving him and having his feelings returned, but knowing he has to deny himself what they both want is excruciating. "How long?" He forces himself to ask it. "The potion. How long does it last?" 

They're never permanent, these things. No one can sustain the kind of passion they inspire for a lifetime. They'd burn out, burn up. They're only meant to create a spark, and to sustain it until the flames have caught. 

Enjolras makes a face. "I was very reluctant," he says. "I didn't think the usual potions would be enough time to make me love my intended once they'd worn off." 

_"How long?"_

"Three years," Enjolras says on a breath, and Grantaire makes a hoarse, punched-out sound. 

_"Christ._ Enjolras. What were you thinking?" 

Enjolras presses in close against him once more and slides his hands under Grantaire's shirt, up his back. He leaves kisses along the slope of his shoulder. Grantaire wants him so badly it hurts. "I didn't want to marry a stranger. I _don't_ want to marry a stranger. I want you." His hands are in Grantaire's hair, tugging him about. Grantaire is going to die. 

"I won't have you." He forces the words through his throat, forces himself to say them. "Not like this. I don't want an imitation. I want the real thing." 

"Grantaire," Enjolras breathes, like Grantaire is breaking his heart. 

"Three years," Grantaire says, and swallows hard. "Three years from today, if you still feel the same, then I'll have you. Not a moment before." It's the hardest thing he's ever done. 

He doesn't imagine it's going to get any easier, over the years to come. 

Enjolras sits back and gives him a hard, ferocious look. _That_ expression is all his own, nothing to do with the potion at all, and it makes Grantaire smile to see something true on him. "I'll feel the same," he says, like if he just sounds sure enough he can make it so. "After the potion's worn off. I'll still love you. I can _feel_ it." 

Grantaire smiles a little and kisses him lightly. He's never known Enjolras to fail at something he sets his mind to, and right now, he sounds very, very determined. "I hope you're right," he says, and hugs him close.


	45. E/R - Helen of Troy

Enjolras has held court and presided over the contest to win her hand and sailed across the sea to a new home to be wed, and all without even looking on the face of her betrothed. He sent his brother to compete and woo in his stead, and all Enjolras knows of her intended is the rumors she's heard and the stories his brother has told during the long sea voyage. It's little enough to go on, when they're meant to spend the rest of their lives together. 

He comes to greet her when they sail into port, a whole retinue waiting at his back upon the dock. Enjolras disembarks and sizes him up as she comes to stand before him, and allows herself to be sized up in turn. 

She waits, braced for the words that always come when someone has had a chance to look on her for the first time. _You're beautiful, you're lovely, I've never seen anyone more stunning, Aphrodite herself must have smiled on you._

All her life, that's what she's been to people. A thing to be looked at and admired. She holds her spine straight and cannot make herself smile as her new husband assesses her. 

It's only a moment before he's looking her in the eyes again, and she can't smile but he can, broad and warm. "My lady," he says, coming forward to offer her his hand. 

Enjolras takes it, lets herself be drawn with him back to the retinue. "My lord," she says, stiff. 

He laughs, and that's warm, too. "Call me Grantaire, please. I insist." 

She glances at him sideways and gives him a long, searching look. "Very well," she says at last. "Then I insist you call me by my name, as well." 

His smile turns a little startled, but remains genuine. "As you like. Enjolras." He lifts her hand and brushes a kiss against the back of it. "You have had a long voyage, you must be weary." 

"Not particularly." 

"Hungry, then, or at least ready to be at your journey's end." 

Enjolras is neither of those things, either, but it's plain enough that Grantaire is eager to have her home and show her off, so she lets herself be led away and listens to the whispers that rise up behind her as she passes. Even here, it is just the same. People see her and they exclaim to one another over her beauty. 

Grantaire is plan, solidly built but lacking the fineness of features that makes men pleasing to look at. She's sure they whisper about that, too, about how someone so unremarkable of face managed to win the hand of someone so fair. They will say that he must be strong and virile and courageous, then, to have won her hand. 

She wonders if that's why he pursued her so diligently, why he petitioned her father with such determination for her hand. 

* 

They return to the palace and eat, and Grantaire watches her with a gaze that sees too much as she picks at the plate before her. "You are unwell?" he asks her. 

The food sits uneasily in her stomach, but she shakes her head. "I ate on the ship. I hadn't realized that we were so close to our destination, or that you would have such a meal already prepared for us." 

He seems to accept her answer, but continues to watch her as she eats. She is keenly aware of the curl falling over her shoulder, of the straightness of her spine and the way her dress follows the shape of her body. She is always, always aware of the picture she makes, because it's the only reason people ever care to look at her. 

* 

Grantaire gives her a tour of the palace when the meal has finished, and ends it at his chambers. _Their_ chambers, now. "Your things will be brought up by morning," he tells her, and she nods absently but her gaze is on the bed that dominates the room, her thoughts on the marital duties he will expect of her. 

A light touch on her shoulder startles her, and draws her attention back to Grantaire. He's watching her with a frown. "Why do you look as though you fear me?" 

"It's not fear." She squares her shoulders. "I was only thinking how I don't know you, not even the littlest bit." 

He seems startled by that, his brows flying high. "I'm sure my brother told you all manner of sordid tales, did he not?" 

"Tales are one thing, but they hardly count when I cannot know if he ever speaks the truth." 

"Come, then." He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and pats the space beside him. "Sit, and we shall acquaint ourselves." 

She comes slowly, and lowers herself carefully to sit beside him, preserving a hand's span of space between them. "Very well," she says. "You may begin." 

"I hardly know where to," he says, sounding at sea. "Are there no questions you wish to ask of me? Perhaps we might start there, rather than a summary of a life that I fear you'd find somewhat dull." 

She turns her head to look at him, startled by the realization that he still means for her to learn about him first. "You don't wish to know about me?" 

He looks confused. "I thought you wanted--" 

"But then, I suppose you know everything necessary when you look at my face, don't you?" She hasn't even been here a day and her mouth is running away with her. It's going to get her into trouble, she knows that, she's always known it, but she cannot help herself. 

Grantaire doesn't look angry, though. If anything, he looks stung. "Is that what you think?" 

She lets out a sharp breath. "You sent your brother across the seas to compete in your name for the hand of a woman you'd never met. Of course it's what I think. What did you know of me beyond what everyone says, that I'm beautiful, that Aphrodite must have smiled upon me at my birth, that--" 

He takes her hands, halting her flow of furious words. He's smiling a little, mostly fond and a little amused. "They say that you speak your mind. That you cannot go a single day without voicing some opinion or another." 

Enjolras's face burns hot with mortification. It's true, she can't. It's always been a failing. 

Grantaire's thumb sweeps comforting circles across the back of her hand. "They say you're clever, that your mind is as sharp as a sword's edge. That you will argue and debate with men with as much ferocity as the greatest warrior, and that you will not yield until you've brought them to their knees." 

"They do not," Enjolras says, breathless. "They never. All anyone ever cares to speak of is my face." 

Grantaire's smile is slow and warms her all the way down to her toes. "They do, if you know the right questions to ask." 

She turns to face him and looks at him, really looks at him. "You don't care that I'm beautiful." 

He laughs a little and releases one of his hands from hers to lift it and trace the line of her cheek. "You _are_ beautiful," he says quietly. "Of course you are. I'd have to be blind not to see it. But beauty can be found elsewhere, too. If I'd wished a quiet, docile wife who was pleasing to look at, there are plenty of those to be had here in Sparta. But I wanted someone with a clever mind, not just a pleasing face." 

It's the first time anyone has ever said anything of the sort to her. Enjolras studies his face closely, looking for any sign that this is anything but the truth. But Grantaire's face is open and honest, he means every word he's said, and that's enough to knock the breath from her and leave her lightheaded and dizzy. No one has ever thought her opinions were anything but a failing. 

She tightens her hands around his and leans forward, pressing her mouth to his in a kiss. He makes a small sound against her mouth and lifts a hand to cup her jaw, to kiss her back. For the first time, she is grateful to be here, grateful to be betrothed. For the first time, it seems possible that she might be able to be happy here. She thinks Grantaire might even be the sort of husband she can grow to love, with time.


	46. E/R - Atalanta and the Golden Apples

Enjolras's latest suitor doesn't even look like a runner. Grantaire seems better suited for wrestling, with broad shoulders and a stocky build. Enjolras looks him over dubiously as she adjusts the straps of her sandals so they won't chafe during the footrace. 

"You're willing to die to prove your superiority?" Enjolras asks him, frowning. 

He grins as though this is all a joke, as though he doesn't believe Enjolras's father will follow through on his threat to kill any suitors who cannot defeat Enjolras and win her hand in marriage. "Ah, but to die at your hand would be such a glorious way to go." 

Enjolras huffs out a breath of annoyance and takes her place at the oak that marks the starting point of the race. Bad enough to have to prove herself against this endless stream of men, certain that the rumors of her strength and speed can be nothing but exaggerations, sure that they alone will be the exception and will outrun her without even breaking a sweat. 

Her father presides over the race, standing at the oak and surveying them both. "Ready?" he asks of them both. 

Enjolras nods and takes her position. 

"Ready," Grantaire says, and braces himself to spring forward at a word. 

"Race!" her father cries, and Enjolras runs. 

This is always where she's been happiest, with the ground flying beneath her feet and the wind in her hair. She runs with her eyes on the course before her, a circuit around the field that will bring them back to the oak that started the race, where her father waits to declare the victor, but stumbles and nearly trips when something goes rolling past her, right beneath her feet. 

She slows enough to see what it is, and stops and scoops it up. It's an apple, smooth and heavy and made of gold, and while she stops to pick it up, Grantaire runs past her, taking the lead. 

She isn't worried. The race is scarcely begun, there's still plenty of time to make up the distance between them. She tucks the apple into her pocket and runs again, feeling it bounce against her thigh with every stride. 

She's caught up to Grantaire in moments, and overtaken him soon after. He doesn't even try to speed up when he glances over his shoulder and sees her right behind him, just grins like he's having the time of his life and keeps his same pace. 

When Enjolras has overtaken him, another golden blur goes rolling past her, though this time it goes wide and doesn't threaten to make her trip over it. Still, she stops, bewildered, and picks it up to find it's a match to the first. She considers it, and then Grantaire as he passes her by. 

When she overtakes him a second time, he sends a third golden apple rolling across the ground in front of her, and Enjolras laughs at the absurdity of it. She retrieves the third as well, then runs after Grantaire, pushing herself hard. The fencepost is nearing and he's still ahead of her. He's leveled the playing field with this trick of his, but if he means to win the race, and her hand, she intends to make him work to earn it. 

This time when Enjolras nears, Grantaire throws a wild look over his shoulder and pushes himself on, arms pumping harder, feet flying faster. Enjolras laughs, loving the race and delighting in the challenge, and runs as fast as her legs will carry her. 

She's closing in, the oak tree growing closer and taller, her father standing there watching them both. She's nearly to him, and her lungs are burning and her legs are screaming but she's _almost there_... but they're at the oak before she can close the last distance between them, and Grantaire finishes a half a stride ahead of her. 

He drops as soon as he's finished, flopping over to lie on his back and panting, gasping for breath. Enjolras doubles over, hands on her knees, and fights to catch her breath as well. 

Her father looks them both over, his expression unreadable. "Daughter, you have been bested," he says. 

Enjolras thinks of the apples weighing down her pockets, thinks that she could pull them out and show them to her father and claim Grantaire's victory invalid because he cheated. Grantaire pushes up onto his elbows in the grass to see what her father will say, what _she_ will say. And Enjolras looks at him, really looks at him. 

"I have, Father," she says with a slight smile, and inclines her head to Grantaire. "You have won my hand." And she offers it to him, to help him to his feet. 

* 

Later, after they are wed, they lie in bed together, bodies close and warm as sweat cools on their skin. Grantaire turns over, twisting about to face her. "You let me win," he says, quiet and a little accusatory. 

Enjolras smiles. "I ran as hard as I could, I promise." 

"But you stopped for the apples. You could have kept running, and I'd have never caught you. Why didn't you?" 

The apples stand clustered on the table beside their bed now, gleaming faintly in the low light. 

"You didn't think you could win," Enjolras says quietly. "Or you'd never have come prepared to cheat." 

Grantaire makes a low sound, like that only raises more questions than it answers. 

"Everyone else," Enjolras says, "everyone else was so sure I couldn't be as good as the tales said I am. Everyone else was confident that I was slower than them, weaker than them." She lays a hand on Grantaire's chest, over his beating heart. "You didn't doubt me," she says softly. "You believed in the possibility that a woman might be better than you." 

"And now?" There's worry still in Grantaire's eyes. "You didn't wish to be wed to any man. Now? Are you displeased to find yourself with a husband?" 

She'd have said she would be, before. But she thinks about it, really thinks about it, and shakes her head at last. He's kind. He's never been anything but tender with her. She thinks she picked a good man to lose to. "No," she says, and leans in to kiss him lightly. When she draws back, she grins. "But tomorrow, we're going running together. We'll get you into shape soon enough." 

Grantaire groans and throws an arm over his eyes. "Mercy," he begs, and Enjolras just laughs.


	47. E/R - Savitri and Satyavan

Grantaire's feet are sore and blistered when he finds the cottage in the forest, cunningly disguised to blend in with the trees and inhabited by two men who come out as he nears. One is older and stares unseeing in the wrong direction as Grantaire approaches. The other is in his prime, lean and well-built and fair-faced, and he glares as Grantaire gets nearer, as though he can keep Grantaire at bay through the power of his unpleasantness. 

"What do you want?" he demands as Grantaire grows nearer. 

Grantaire introduces himself and explains that he's on a pilgrimage to find a spouse. The moment he says it, the younger man snorts and ducks back into the house. 

"Don't mind Enjolras," the blind man says. "He doesn't much care for matters of the heart, that's all. But it sounds as though you've had a long journey. Would you like to come in and rest a while? We've soup on the fire, if you're hungry." 

Grantaire thanks him warmly and follows him inside, where Enjolras looks exasperated, if unsurprised, by the other man's generosity. 

* 

Some months later, Grantaire presents himself to his father. Enjolras is at his side, his hand in Grantaire's, and they both grip each other tight. "I've found him," he says, and only that. It's all that's needed. 

* 

Before his father can even speak a word of congratulations, his sage steps forward, his eyes gone vague and distant with prophecy. "You've made an unwise choice," he says. "If you marry this man, you will live a lonely life, for he will die a year from today." 

Enjolras takes a sharp breath and tightens his fingers around Grantaire's hand. Grantaire turns his head to look at him. Enjolras, who took weeks to even tolerate his presence, and longer to requite Grantaire's love. Enjolras, who lived in a hut in the woods with his blind, deposed father, plotting rebellion, plotting revolution. Grantaire looks at him and he laughs, bent double and wheezing with it. It is not news to him that Enjolras will die young. Anyone who knows the man can predict that easily enough. 

Grantaire's father eyes him uncertainly. "Choose another, son," he says, "Choose someone who will bring you happiness, not grief." 

"No," Grantaire says, and Enjolras makes a sound beside him like he's surprised. "I've made my choice. I won't make it again." He tightens his hand on Enjolras's and urges him forward to stand close at Grantaire's side. "We will wed. And if he dies in a year, then we will be happy for a year." 

* 

Enjolras looks stunned when Grantaire takes just enough time to greet his family, and then starts making plans to leave again. "We're going home?" 

"Well," Grantaire says. "We could stay, but I don't know how you're going to liberate your country from here." 

Enjolras looks jubilantly happy for one glorious moment, and then tamps it down beneath caution and concern. "But what about what the sage said. What if it kills me?" 

"What about what I said?" Grantaire counters, and pulls him in for a kiss. "If it kills you, I will be happy with you until that day." He slips his hand back into Enjolras's, like before, and squeezes it tight. "Besides, if Death means to come for you, he'll find that I've staked a previous claim, and I am not so easy to be rid of as I seem." 

Enjolras's smile spreads, letting his joy shine through until his face is alight with it. "I can attest to that. I tried to be rid of you from the very first day, and look where that got me. Now I'm stuck with you for the rest of my life." He looks like he couldn't be more pleased by that prospect. 

"Longer than that," Grantaire says, pulling Enjolras close and wrapping him in his arms. "If I've anything to say about it, it'll be much longer than that."


	48. E/R - Shakuntala and Dushyant

Grantaire stares at Enjolras, his stomach seized up so tight he feels like he's going to be sick. Enjolras is _here_ , Enjolras is looking at him like he actually knows him, and Grantaire wants to throw himself into his arms and hold onto him so tight that he can never, ever forget. 

He holds himself back because he also rather wants to scream and claw Enjolras's out for coming here _now_ , for acting like he has any right to Grantaire's affection, and Grantaire doesn't trust himself. 

"R," Enjolras whispers, his voice hoarse. "R, I'm sorry." 

If the first words out of his mouth had been anything else, Grantaire thinks he'd have given in to the urge to scream and claw. But Enjolras looks wrecked, and he sounds worse, and Grantaire still loves him enough to be pained by the sight of him in agony. He shuts his eyes and struggles to breathe. 

"You forgot me." 

"I don't know why." Enjolras comes forward, one step, then pulls himself up short when Grantaire snaps his eyes open and gives him a hard stare. "I don't. I never would have." 

"You _forgot me._ " 

Enjolras breaks off. He looks as though Grantaire has stabbed him in the heart, and as though he'd let Grantaire do it again if he cared to. "I'm sorry," he says again, and his voice breaks. "I hurt you, and I'm so sorry. I never wanted to. Please." He comes forward again, one more step. He holds his closed hand out between them, palm up, and opens his fingers to reveal Grantaire's lost ring on his palm. "I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you'll let me." 

Grantaire takes an unsteady breath. He reaches out, his hand trembling, to take the ring from Enjolras's palm. He doesn't slip it on, but lifts it to look at it, to run his fingers over it. "The last time you gave this to me," he says quietly, "you married me, and you promised to love me, and you _left_." 

The _and then you forgot all about me_ lies in the air between them, unspoken. Grantaire doesn't need to say it a third time. He can read the awareness of it in the creases on Enjolras's brow, in the guilt and the pain etched into his face. He's hurting, and there's a part of him that wants Enjolras to hurt, too. But the larger part still loves him, enough to not want to make him suffer. 

"Never again." One more step and Enjolras is close in front of him. He takes Grantaire's hands in his and clasps them, lifts them up between them and presses kisses to his knuckles. "If you'll have me, I'll never leave you again, I swear it." 

Grantaire can feel his will caving, his anger crumbling. It was easier to nurse when Enjolras was distant. Now he's here, so close. He smells like soap and spices, just as he always has, and he looks so earnest, just as he always has. And Grantaire loves him, just as he always has. 

He turns the ring around in his hand, watching the light play off of it, before he slips it onto his finger and lets it rest against the knuckle. Enjolras stares at it, too, and loses his breath on an unsteady rush. "Does this mean--" 

"I love you," Grantaire says, and Enjolras sweeps him into a crushing hug before he can say anything else. Grantaire embraces him, arms wrapped tight and face pressed to the familiar, comforting strength of his shoulder, and lets the tears fall that he's refused to shed all this time.


	49. E/R - Prince Lindworm

Enjolras is not afraid. 

He is prepared, with nearly a dozen shifts to dress in for bed, with whips soaking in lye, with a tub full of fresh milk, with the old woman's words ringing in his ears. 

With a sword, carefully hidden away in the bedchamber. He does not intend to be the serpent's meal, if the old woman's instructions do not work. Nor will he let him devour anyone else his mad, desperate parents try to wed him to. It ends tonight, one way or another. 

The wedding is quick, perfunctory. No one cares to linger over ceremony when one of the grooms is a massive coiling serpent who has devoured two wives already. There is a grand feast, but Enjolras watches the way the king and queen eye their son and suspects it's less for purposes of celebration than it is in the hopes that if the serpent feasts upon their offerings now, he might be less inclined to feast upon Enjolras tonight. 

Enjolras takes a few bites, he'll need his strength, but he hasn't the stomach to eat properly. 

Soon enough the feast is over as well. Enjolras ignores the whispers and the sidelong glances, the worried, hopeful expressions as Enjolras addresses his new husband and asks, "Shall we retire?" 

They walk together through the halls until they reach the bedchamber that's been prepared for them. Enjolras opens the door and allows the serpent through first. He steps in after, shuts the door behind, and doesn't allow himself to glance around for the sword hidden here. He won't give his plan away, not either of them. 

"Allow me to prepare for bed," he says when the serpent slithers around to face him, before he can make any demands or move to devour him. 

He slips behind the changing screen, where the ten white shifts he requested are waiting for him, hung up one beside the other. Where the two tubs are waiting as well, one full of whips and lye, the other full of milk. 

He strips out of his wedding clothes quickly, but donning the shifts takes somewhat more time. The first few go one easy, but after that, they start to get heavy and cumbersome. Still, Enjolras follows the old woman's instructions to the letter, until he is standing in his bare feet wearing ten shifts, hanging so full and so heavy around his calves that he feels as though he's wearing a woman's petticoats. 

He steps out from behind the screen feeling ridiculous, braced for the serpent to mock him, or to demand what sort of trickery this is. The serpent slithers close and twines around him, sliding up until he is wrapped in the heavy, muscular coils of his body and the serpent's face is just in front of his. His eyes are slitted and his forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air. "We are wed, husband," he says, his words hissing faintly. "There is no need for modesty between us now. Shed a shift, won't you?" 

Enjolras is not afraid. Still, he gathers his courage. "This is a marriage of equals, is it not? I'd have us start on equal footing. I'll do as you ask, if you do the same, and shed a skin for me." 

The serpent unwinds from him and rears back, his tail thrashing. "You would make a demand of me?" he hisses. 

Enjolras's pulse pounds but he stands strong. "You made one of me." 

The serpent considers it a moment, his tail still thrashing, but slower. Then he stretches out and twists, writhing around until he's done as Enjolras bid him, and left a giant snakeskin lying twisted and pale on the bedchamber floor. 

Enjolras upholds his end of the deal, and strips the first of his shifts off. He leaves it lying discarded on top of the serpent's skin. 

The serpent flicks his tongue out as he looks over the shift Enjolras is wearing beneath the first. "Shed another, fair husband," he says. 

"If you will as well," Enjolras counters. 

And so it goes, eight times more, until there is a pile of shed skins and shifts in the middle of the room and Enjolras is wearing only his last. It feels thin and insubstantial now. He feels exposed even though he's covered. And the serpent lies before him, just as exposed. His scales grew thinner and softer with each skin he shed, until now he has no scales at all, only skin, raw and tender. 

It's Enjolras's turn to remove his last shift, but instead he turns away and steps behind the changing screen once more. 

He comes out with whips. He has to steel himself before he strikes the serpent with the first, but it doesn't make the creature rage or attack as Enjolras expected. He shrinks back as though shocked, and then slithers away. Enjolras follows, dripping lye water across the floor, and strikes the serpent with each in turn 

When he's finished, the serpent is curled into a ball, his tail lashing, his forked tongue flitting out to taste the air. Enjolras comes forward and lays a careful hand behind his hand and tries to coax him out, but he will not come, only twists the coils of his own body around himself even tighter. 

Enjolras goes behind the screen and grasps the edge of the tub filled with milk. He hauls it out, scraping across the fine floor, sloshing milk across the rugs. The serpent watches him drag it over to him, but he doesn't flee, and he doesn't attack. 

Enjolras drops to his knees beside the serpent and washes him with the milk as the old woman instructed, washes every inch of him, his hands slipping over smooth skin, leaving rivulets of milk running over him. 

When he has washed all of him and the tub is all but empty, there's only one more instruction left to follow. Enjolras looks into the serpent's eyes (they're not slitted anymore, not angry, their pupils have expanded until they look almost round, almost human) and prays he isn't about to be devoured like the two wives who came before him. 

He leans in and wraps his arms around the serpent's body, and clasps him close, the way a husband might. "You are not a monster," he says quietly, which wasn't part of the old woman's instructions but he feels the need to say something all the same. "You were born this way, having done no wrong. This shouldn't be your curse to bear." 

* 

He wakes to sunshine on his face, and can't remember anything else that came the night before. But when he rolls over to see what's happened to the serpent, the shed skins and shifts are still there, the whips lying forgotten on the ground, the tubs still where they'd left them. But the serpent is gone and there's a strange man lying in the bed with him, naked and pale-skinned and with faint, pink welts criss-crossing his back. 

Enjolras reaches out to touch them, horrified now by what he did as he could not have been while doing it. 

The man stirs at his touch. He turns his head on the pillow and peers out at Enjolras, one eye squinting through the fall of tousled curls. It's the exact same color as the serpent's eyes the night before, but entirely human now, and looking rather awed. 

"I did it," Enjolras says, barely a breath because he can scarcely believe it. 

The man rolls onto his shoulder, facing Enjolras, and pushes the hair out of his face. "You did it," he agrees quietly. 

Enjolras touches his skin where one of the pink welts curls up over his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says. 

"Sorry?" The man sits up and stares at him as though he's gone made. " _Thank you._ What you did for me--" His voice breaks a little. "What you _said_ to me..." 

"I meant it." 

The man shuts his eyes as though pained. "You made vows last night, but I won't hold you to them. You shouldn't have had to do that. If you wish to go, I won't stop you." But even as he says it, he looks like the prospect of it is painful, like the last thing he wants is for Enjolras to leave. 

Enjolras considers him a moment, and considers his own heart. "Marriage is difficult," he says at last. "I've put a great deal of work into ours already. I'd hate for that effort to go to waste." 

Disbelief and hope wash across the man's face. He stares at Enjolras like he thinks maybe he's a mirage, an illusion, unreal. 

"What should I call you?" Enjolras asks him. "You're not Prince Lindworm anymore, I won't call you that. You deserve your own name." 

"I don't know," he says, and sounds surprised. 

"Well. We'll figure it out," Enjolras says, and leans forward to give him a light kiss, their very first as a married couple.


	50. E/R - Dionysus and Ariadne

Enjolras is leaning against a stall at the fair, texting Combeferre to ask for a ride home when he and Éponine have tired of the Ferris wheel, when a shadow falls across his phone at the same time someone conspicuously clears his throat. 

Enjolras glances up at the guy standing in front of him, his brows raised expectantly. "Are you in line?" 

"No. Sorry," Enjolras says, short and gruff, and slides to the side so he's not in the way of the people who came here to have a good time. 

The man just side-steps with him. When Enjolras frowns, he tips his head to the side and smiles in a way that Enjolras supposes is meant to be charmingly. "You look awfully unhappy for someone at the fair. What's wrong?" He's wearing a circlet woven of plastic branches and plastic leaves and plastic bunches of grapes, and he's holding a clear plastic cup of beer in one hand, and he's already drunk more than half of it. He is so not Enjolras's type. 

Enjolras presses his lips thin. "I've been abandoned by my ex-boyfriend," he says, his words clipped and unhappy. It hasn't been lost on him that said ex-boyfriend is -- _was_ \-- exactly his type, and maybe Enjolras really needs to get a different type. 

The guy in front of him gives a low whistle and lifts his eyebrows even higher. "You came to the fair with your ex? Do you just not know how to have a good time?" 

Enjolras sighs and scratches a hand through his hair. He hasn't gotten a response from Combeferre yet, but if he's still on the Ferris wheel with Éponine his phone is probably the last thing on his mind. Enjolras drops it into his pocket as a lost cause and considers the man more fully. "He wasn't my ex when we showed up," he says at last. "He became my ex when he decided to abandon me while my back was turned, without even bothering to say good-bye." 

"Damn. That's cold." The stranger's eyes are sympathetic but not pitying, which is frankly refreshing after everything else Enjolras has had to deal with tonight. He holds a hand out to Enjolras, and Enjolras is startled when he takes it without even thinking. "All right, well," the stranger starts, leading him off down the row of stalls, hawkers calling out from both sides, trying to entice people to come play their games of skill or chance. "You can't leave a fair without having had a good time, that's just a rule. So if your idiot of an ex is stupid enough to drop that ball, I guess it just falls to someone else to pick it up." He waves a hand, gesturing at the stalls before them. "See anything you like? I'll win something for you." 

"You don't have to do that." 

"Nonsense, it's tradition. You can't have a date at a fair without coming home with some giant stuffed rabbit that your date won for you in a thrilling and expensive display of his manhood. Ooh, how about the duck races, I'm good at the duck races." 

"I'm not really a stuffed rabbit sort of person." Enjolras eyes the array of various neon-colored stuffed animals hanging overhead at the duck race booth, just waiting to be won. "And maybe I'm the one who wants to be doing the winning, hmm?" 

The stranger gives him a startled looks, and it's only then that Enjolras realizes that he didn't protest to this being called a date, and that that means something. He sighs and runs a hand over his brow. 

But all he says is, "Right. No animals, then. Come on, I think I know just the place." 

Enjolras follows as he's dragged through the rows of stalls until they stop in front of the ring toss booth. It's got various offerings of cheap plastic circlets and headpieces, and must be where he won his grape-leaf crown. 

"I'm not in the habit of dating people whose names I don't even know," Enjolras says. 

The guy starts to look disappointed, but when Enjolras gives him a waiting, expectant look, his expression clears, leaves him grinning and happy again. "It's Grantaire," he says, and then gives that same look back. 

"I'm Enjolras," Enjolras says. "Pleased to meet you." 

"Oh, the pleasure's _all_ mine, I assure you." His grin is sharp and teasing. Before Enjolras can respond, he turns to the man running the booth and hands him a bill. "Now, step back, please. Make sure you have a good vantage to witness my feats of daring and bravery, that's very important." 

Enjolras smiles and leans his shoulder up against the stall's frame, watching as Grantaire throws ring after ring. He's not a bad shot, and soon he's spent entirely too much money and gathered a heaping pile of tickets in front of him, which he trades in for a crown from the highest shelf, gold and gaudy and cheap. Enjolras grins and leaves it there when Grantaire solemnly presents it and settles it upon his head. 

"There," Grantaire says. "Now it's a proper date." 

"Not quite." Enjolras hooks his arm through Grantaire's and strolls away with him, leaving the games behind in favor of the enticing smells of the food court. "I have it on good authority that it's not _really_ a proper date at the fair until we've shared a funnel cake." 

Grantaire looks surprised, and then pleased. "Well," he says. "If we must, we must." 

* 

Later, Enjolras's phone buzzes as they're finishing another funnel cake between them. (Enjolras has lost count of how many they've had, now, but they're _good_ , and Grantaire keeps sucking the powdered sugar off of his fingers, and now he's got a smear of it at the corner of his mouth that he is failing miserably at wiping off and Enjolras is giving serious consideration to just leaning in and kissing it away for him.) 

It's a message from Combeferre, telling him that he and Éponine would be happy to take him home whenever he's ready to go. 

_I'm okay,_ Enjolras sends back. _My boyfriend's going to give me a ride._

He's going to do a lot of explaining tomorrow, but for now, he slips his phone back into his pocket and grabs Grantaire's hands in his own. He's finally succeeded in getting rid of the powdered sugar, but Enjolras tells him, "Nope, it's still there. You're hopeless. Here, let me help..." and leans in.


	51. E/R - five times R made up excuses to draw Enjolras

(Five times R made up excuses to draw Enjolras, and one time he didn't need any excuse at all.)

1.

"I need a favor." Grantaire drops down into the chair opposite Enjolras's, startling him. The library's closing soon and most everyone has already abandoned it, Enjolras just slipping his laptop into his bag to do the same. "My neck is on the line, please don't say no." 

Enjolras zips his bag shut and meets Grantaire's gaze across the table. "I can't say anything if you don't actually ask me." 

"Right." Grantaire draws a breath and visibly steels himself. "So I've got this assignment for my art class. I have to draw a portrait and it has to be someone I haven't already drawn for class before and I'm kind of screwed. I've already drawn everyone else about a million times, and funny enough people aren't as charmed by the idea of random strangers walking up and asking to draw them as you would think, and it's due tomorrow." 

Enjolras gives him a long look, waiting, because he still hasn't _asked_ for anything yet, even if he has hinted at it. When Grantaire just looks increasingly uncertain, Enjolras sighs and decides he can cut him just a little slack. "And the favor you need is...?" 

Grantaire lets out a burst of air like he'd been holding it. "May I draw you? You don't have to pose or anything, and it won't take long, I just need you to hold still for like half an hour." 

A refusal sits poised at the tip of Enjolras's tongue -- half an hour is verging on a long time, by his estimation, especially if Grantaire expects him to spend it sitting still doing absolutely nothing. But Grantaire looks desperate and hopeful and Enjolras knows that while he'll put off essays and homework for other classes until the very last possible minute only to pull off an all-nighter miracle in the thirteenth hour, he never procrastinates on his art assignments. If he hasn't already finished his portrait assignment it's because he really hasn't been able to find a willing model, not because of laziness or procrastination. 

"I was going to go to the Musain for some coffee and to finish my reading," he says instead. "I can't promise to be motionless, but will that be still enough for your purposes?" 

Grantaire's nodding, overeager, before Enjolras has even finished speaking. "Yeah, yes. _Thank you._ That'll be fine." And he rises with Enjolras and they head off to the coffeeshop together. 

2\. 

"I need your help," Grantaire says by way of greeting, grabbing onto Enjolras's arm and looking a little frantic. 

Enjolras just raises his brows and waits, until Grantaire releases his grip, looking abashed, and says, "Would you sit for me again?" 

"Another portrait assignment?" he asks, and takes Grantaire by the elbow to steer him around until they're both going the way Enjolras was headed. "I've got an essay I meant to revise later anyway, I could get an early start on it I suppose." 

Grantaire looks surprised, and he's not the only one. But Enjolras was pleased to discover last time that Grantaire with a pencil in his hands is much better company than Grantaire with a bottle of wine and nothing to do to keep himself entertained but play devil's advocate. And there's been a headache brewing behind Enjolras's eyebrow all morning that he's hopeful a cup of Louison's coffee might be able to chase away. 

"Not exactly," Grantaire says, but he keeps pace at Enjolras's side. "I'm working on a study of different hair types." 

"Hair?" Enjolras stops and frowns at him. 

Grantaire's gaze shifts off of him, sliding around unsettled. "Curls are a real bitch to draw," he says at last, fingers closed tight around the strap of his bag. "I could use the extra practice." 

Grantaire looks like he might bolt if Enjolras leaves him hanging much longer, so he shrugs and keeps walking. Grantaire takes a few quick strides to catch up with him, and then he's a warm, quiet presence at Enjolras's side, all the way to the Musain. 

3\. 

"I need another favor," Grantaire says, and Enjolras is getting used enough to this that he'd just turn for the Musain automatically but for the way that Grantaire is chewing on his lip and frowning like he's already resigned himself to being refused. And he has no reason to think that when Enjolras _hasn't_ yet, so he stops and makes Grantaire turn to face him, makes him look at him. 

"What is it?" Enjolras asks him quietly. 

Grantaire takes a breath that fills his lungs and pulls his shoulders square. "I need a model. Not someone to just sit and do their own thing while I draw, but an actual model. We've got this assignment to translate a piece of famous art into our own medium and I'm doing Bernini's Apollo and Daphne, and Floreal's going to be my Daphne but I still need an Apollo and it's kind of got to be you." His face is so bright with painful hope that Enjolras is gripped by the ridiculous urge to agree without knowing anything more about the request. 

He forces the reaction down, forces himself to think about what Grantaire is actually asking of him. "Isn't Apollo wearing little more than a strategically-draped sheet in Bernini's sculpture?" 

Grantaire goes pink at the ears. "I'm modernizing it. No sheets or togas required, I promise. I just need you to stand how I put you for about an hour while I get the basic sketch down." 

"I've got a test in twenty," Enjolras says. He thinks about that hope on Grantaire's face turning to disappointment and adds, before he can think better of it, "This weekend? My last midterm is tomorrow, so I should be able to spare the time after." He knows how that might sound, so he smiles to soften the impact. "Saturday?" 

Grantaire gulps visibly. "Yeah. Saturday's great." He starts backing away before Enjolras can say anything else. "I'll let you get to class. Good luck with your midterms." 

4\. 

All their friends are at the Musain and what started as a study session has turned into Enjolras ranting, taking some random university student to task for interjecting a poorly-reasoned and offensive opinion. Louison breaks it up when Enjolras is just getting warmed up, shooing out the troublemakers and giving Enjolras and his friends a look that is both disapproving and fond. 

Enjolras drops down at the nearest table, and only belatedly realizes that it's Grantaire's customary table in the back, and that he's got a sketchbook open and a stick of charcoal in his hands, his fingers all black and messy with it. "Sorry," Enjolras says automatically at Grantaire's startled glance. "I didn't mean to disrupt you." 

Grantaire's smile flashes, masking the surprise in his eyes but not quick enough to hide it. "That's all right, the tableau was broken anyway." 

"May I see?" 

Grantaire looks hesitant, reluctant. Enjolras waits, not pushing, and finally he heaves a sigh and says, "Oh, very well. Don't laugh, I had to get it down quick, you were moving around a lot more than I'm used to." 

His words are warning enough that Enjolras isn't surprised when Grantaire turns the sketchbook around and shows him a sketch of himself, standing on one of the Musain's tables though Enjolras is quite sure he never did, drawn in quick, rough lines of charcoal that somehow capture energy and motion and a simmering sort of intensity that makes something thick and sticky catch in Enjolras's throat. 

"Is it all right?" Grantaire asks, his brows pinched, when Enjolras hands the sketchbook back wordlessly. 

Enjolras makes himself smile. "It's wonderful. You're very skilled." 

Grantaire's face brightens, worry washing away beneath happiness. "It's just a quick sketch right now. I'll show it to you again when it's finished." 

"I look forward to it," Enjolras says, and means it. 

5\. 

Enjolras is modeling for Grantaire, again -- "It's just for a hand study," he said, "I have to do at least twenty and I'm running out of friends, you don't have to stand or pose or anything, just get comfortable and keep your hands still" -- and he thought it would be easier this way, slouched in one of the Musain's armchairs with his hands curled loosely over his stomach, Grantaire's assignment an excellent excuse to take a break from his coursework and just let himself do nothing for a short while. 

But he's quickly discovering that he's not wired for doing nothing. He's bored out of his mind, and in lieu of anything else to do, he's left watching Grantaire, the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating on his drawing, the way he tucks his tongue into the corner of his mouth as he lays in lines and shading that Enjolras can't see. The way his gaze lingers on Enjolras's hands longer than he thinks must be necessary to get the shape and the angle and the lines right. The way he blinks sometimes like he lost himself for a moment and is only now coming back to himself, and the sudden scratch of the pencil across the paper serves only to highlight how it had fallen still while he stared. 

Enjolras is not the sort to handle restrictions and prohibitions gracefully. Being forbidden to move only makes him want to do it all the more, makes his hands itch, makes his mind fixate. 

"All right," Grantaire says at last, laying the sketchbook down. "I think that'll do it--" 

Enjolras is moving before he's even given actual permission to do so, reaching across the table to grab handfuls of Grantaire's shirt, to curl and clench his fingers the way he's wanted to since five minutes after Grantaire started drawing. Enjolras hauls him over the table, meets him halfway across it and kisses him, hard and desperate and just as shocked at himself as Grantaire seems to be, his hands flying to grab at Enjolras's hair, his pencil forgotten in his grip, tangling in Enjolras's curls, and Enjolras doesn't care because Grantaire's mouth is just as skilled and just as incredible as his hands. 

+1. 

Enjolras isn't asleep, not exactly, but he's drifting, hazy. It's the sound of a pencil scratching lightly across paper that rouses him, brings him back to himself. He rolls over and Grantaire makes a sharp, frustrated sound. "Well, now you've ruined it." 

"Let me see?" Enjolras pushes himself upright and holds a hand out for the sketchbook, but he doesn't take and he doesn't demand. He waits while indecision flickers across Grantaire's face, waits until he sighs and decides, smiling a little shyly. "It's not great, I didn't get very far, you moved before I could." 

Enjolras takes it and looks. It's him, of course, drawn in repose. It's a quick sketch, Grantaire wasn't wrong about that, but it's better than he thinks. Even unfinished Enjolras looks lazy and satisfied and replete, which is entirely accurate. 

"It's wonderful," Enjolras says firmly, and apologizes by rolling in and pressing against Grantaire's side, wrapping his arms around him, twining their legs together. "I'm sorry for ruining it." 

Grantaire hums a little, a happy sound, and works his arms around Enjolras in turn. "Next time I'm just going to have to do a better job wearing you out, so you stay still longer." 

"Well," Enjolras says, and grins. "If you must, you must."


	52. E/R - Oisinn and Niamh

There is a man on a white horse who knows Enjolras's name, and is blocking his way. "Enjolras," he says. His eyes are wild and fey, his voice compelling. "I love you. Will you come with me?" 

Enjolras knows a Tuath Dé when he sees one, and he knows better than to insult or anger one. But he has much to do, and so he shakes his head sorrowfully and says, "I'm afraid I cannot. But you may come with me, if you like." 

The man looks taken aback first, then intrigued. He tips his head to the side and considers Enjolras a moment, then wheels his horse about so he's no longer blocking the road, but facing the way Enjolras is going. 

Enjolras pats the horse's neck and is rewarded with a smile as they all three continue down the road. "What should I call you?" 

"R," the man says. It's not a name -- but he's not really a man, after all, so Enjolras supposes allowances must be made. 

"R," Enjolras echoes, and nods to himself, and they all walk on together. 

* 

He is not surprised when R follows him all the way back to town. He is, rather, when R joins him in the tavern where he meets with his friends, slides into a chair toward the back where the others won't notice him and watches him as they meet and talk and plan. 

He doesn't join in their discussions, and more often than not Enjolras glances over to find him quietly laughing to himself, or smirking, or rolling his eyes in an excess of disdain. But Enjolras shrugs it off. He's Tuath Dé, after all, and what do they know or care about the struggles of men? 

When R's there with them at the tavern the next night, and the one after, and the one after that, Enjolras isn't sure what to think at all. 

* 

R stays. Enjolras isn't sure where he goes between meetings, if he's found a place for himself or if he rides his horse back into the hills every time their little group disbands. But he stays, and gradually, he starts to talk more. He offers opinions and interjects in the middle of Enjolras's rants. He asks questions, and usually they show such an incredible lack of understanding for what the people are suffering that Enjolras doesn't know how it's possible that no one else has figured out that he's Tuath Dé. 

But he asks, and he listens when they answer, his face thoughtful, if not always comprehending. He stays and he learns. 

* 

Enjolras doesn't realize how he's grown to count on R's presence until he doesn't come. 

Enjolras holds the meeting still, hoping R will saunter in halfway through with a smirk on his lips, that Enjolras will say something and R will be there, snuck in with the rest of them none the wiser, giving his usual wry commentary. 

The meeting ends. Everyone leaves. R still isn't there. 

Enjolras goes out walking. He's not meaning to look for R -- there are any number of places he might be that Enjolras would never be able to follow, it would be a hopelessly futile endeavor -- but he finds him all the same, a dark shape on his white horse, standing at the crest of a hill and gazing out at the night-dark sea. 

Enjolras is sure to kick a few pebbles as he approaches, so he won't take R by surprise. He comes and stands at his side, laying one hand on his horse's neck, and waits. 

"Come with me," R says at last, and his voice is broken, breaking. "I still love you. The things you're doing here, they'll get you killed. _Come with me._ " 

"You didn't love me before," Enjolras says quietly, not looking at him. "You didn't know me." 

"I knew you." R shifts the horse's reins to one hand and reaches the other down to press over Enjolras's, fingers sliding together. "I know you better now." 

"And?" 

"And." He draws a deep, ragged breath. "I love you better now. I cannot watch you die for your cause." He turns then, twisting in the saddle. He slides down off the horse's back and stands with Enjolras, gripping both his hands. "Enjolras, come with me. You've done your part. Change will come, whether you're here to witness it or not. I've seen enough years go by to know how it looks, when change becomes inevitable. Come with me. Live." 

And Enjolras didn't know him before, didn't love him before. But this change, too, was inevitable. He hears the pain in R's voice and he wavers. "Just for a little while," he says. 

R's face is bright with joy and relief the moment before he pulls Enjolras in by his hands and kisses him. 

* 

R's horse carries them across the sea as though it were as solid as earth. Enjolras sits in front of R, leaning back into the solid warmth of his chest, secure with R's arm wrapped around his waist. He keeps his gaze forward, on the horizon, waiting for his first glimpse of Tír na nÓg. 

* 

Tír na nÓg is beautiful, is idyllic, as full of beauty and joy and abundance as the stories have made it out to be. Enjolras wants to see it all, he wants to learn, he wants to know, and R is happy to be his guide. 

There is much to see, much to learn. Enjolras only meant to visit, but it's much longer than he intended to stay before his thoughts start turning to home, to friends, to the change they wanted to usher in, that R promised him would come. 

He says nothing, but R has always read him too easily. They lie in bed together and R palms his hip, kisses the back of his neck. "Tell me," he says against the curls at Enjolras's nape. 

Enjolras goes still, and R's hand goes still upon him. "Tell you what?" 

"Whatever it is that's made you so quiet, these past days." R slides the hand on his hip up to wrap his arm around Enjolras's stomach, to pull him back against R in a secure embrace. "Something's troubling you. What is it?" 

Enjolras swallows down the knot in his throat. "I've been happy," he says, quickly, lest R get any ideas otherwise. "Don't think I haven't been happy." 

R presses his lips to Enjolras's shoulder for a long moment. "But?" 

"But..." Enjolras sighs. "I'd like to go home. Just for a little while. You said change would come without me, and I'd like the chance to see it." 

R is quiet for long enough that Enjolras starts to worry. Before he can turn around in the embrace, though, R squeezes him tighter. "Tomorrow," he says. "I'll see you home tomorrow." 

* 

R rides with him to the edge of Tír na nÓg, and then dismounts. Enjolras looks down at him, startled, as he wraps Enjolras's fingers around the reins. "Much has changed," he says, low and urgent. "You must stay on the horse until you've returned here, or you'll change with it. Promise me." 

"I promise," Enjolras says, but he's growing worried. R looks so sad, Enjolras can't help but fear what sort of changes he'll find. 

"Go," R says with a strained smile and a pat to his horse's back. "And hurry back to me." 

* 

Enjolras knows something is wrong as soon as the horse steps off the sea and onto the beach. He's been gone longer than he meant to be, but it doesn't look the way he left it, the way he remembers it. 

They ride inland and Enjolras's unease grows. _Much has changed_ , R said, and Enjolras is starting to suspect he left something out. There are whole villages sprung up where there used to be naught but brush and forest. There are thick, tall growths of trees in valleys Enjolras remembers as nothing but a sea of grass. 

He asks the first person he sees what year it is, and nearly topples from the horse's back in shock when he's given a date three hundred years after the day he rode off with R. 

His hands tighten around the reins as he rides. He is so angry and so sad. And R was right, much has changed. People seem happier. He talks to those whom he can, and they seem freer. He's glad for that, at least. 

* 

He doesn't remember how it happens. All he knows is he slips from the saddle, a few days into his ride when his legs have grown sore from not being allowed to dismount and stretch them out. He slips and hits the ground hard enough to knock the wind from him and have darkness clawing at his vision. 

The darkness clears in a moment, but his breathing grows no easier, and he hurts down to his bones. His hands, planted in the dirt from his fall, are thin and frail and wrinkled. His skin is loose and thin as parchment. He tries to push himself up and his limbs shake with the effort. The hair that falls over his shoulder is still curled, but thin, and white as ash. 

* 

"Come with me." 

It takes a great amount of effort just to open his eyes. He'd much rather sleep, here in the bed of the stranger who took pity on him and gave him shelter, gave him succor, who looks at him when he comes with his meals like he thinks Enjolras won't live long enough to need the next one. Enjolras isn't sure he's wrong, either, but he knows those words and he knows that voice, and he fights against the bone-deep exhaustion to pry his eyes open. 

R is there, as young and as beautiful as ever, and why wouldn't he be? Enjolras only left him days before, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like it's been decades, and his body feels as though it carries the weight of every one of the years that he missed. 

"I didn't mean to leave the horse," he says. His voice is thin and creaky, an old man's voice. He doesn't recognize it. "It was an accident." 

"I know." R grips Enjolras's hand in his own, and Enjolras doesn't tell him not to, even though it makes his joints ache. There are tears in his eyes, shining bright as the sea. Enjolras wants to lift a hand and wipe them away, but he doesn't have the strength. "Enjolras, I love you. Come back with me." 

Enjolras is so tired. He shuts his eyes and lets himself savor the feel of R's hand in his. "Will it undo this?" 

R hesitates for too long. "I don't know," he admits at last. "But it'll save you. No one dies in Tír na nÓg." 

Enjolras forces his eyes open again at that. "You would have me live forever as an old man?" he asks at last. He wonders if he wants to live forever, when it hurts like this. 

There are still tears in R's eyes, but now they blaze. He grips Enjolras's hands tight and kisses his knuckles, and his voice shakes with power when he speaks. "I would have you _live._ " 

* 

Enjolras cannot ride as he used to. He sits sideways in the saddle, practically cradled in R's arms. R grips him tight and urges the horse to a gallop, seafoam flying up from its hooves as they race across the waves. 

Enjolras thinks maybe he'll sleep, just for a little while. Just until they're closer, and he can see Tír na nÓg again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sirens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364226) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)
  * [[Podfic] Prince Lindworm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046170) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)
  * [[Podfic] Oissin & Naihm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046191) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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